May The Bridges I Burn Light My Way
by Smaointe Salach
Summary: Sansa takes Sandor Clegane up on his offer to flee King's Landing during the Battle of the Blackwater. In a sort of "butterfly effect," the fact that Sansa is gone from the Red Keep has immeasurable impact on the course of events thereafter. Lots of Sansan, with an exploration of the effect of this pairing on canon storyline.
1. Chapter 1

_Some instinct made her lift her hand and cup his cheek with her fingers. The room was too dark for her to see him, but she could feel the stickiness of the blood, and a wetness that was not blood. "Little bird," he said once more, his voice raw and harsh as steel on stone. _

"If you take me with you," Sansa whispered fearfully, "will I live?"

"You'd have no better chance of dying than if you stayed here," the Hound replied, his voice still flinty, and Sansa gulped as she considered that staying in this castle was as dangerous as venturing out into the battle itself. If the city was lost, the Red Keep would be plundered, along with the women inside.

"You'll keep me safe?" Sansa squeaked, repeating his words from earlier. Her fingertips coursed over the flesh of his cheek, for some reason, perhaps in an effort to coax out the answer she wanted to hear.

The Hound surprised her, then, as he leaned toward her face and stopped only an inch from her lips. She could smell wine on him, and the metallic reek of blood mingling with sweat and filth. Her stomach churned.

"I would kill a hundred thousand men by my own hand to keep you safe, little bird," he murmured, his words blending in his drunkenness.

Sansa's eyes burned wickedly. She could not say if it was her fear or her gratitude that betrayed her, but in any case, a lone tear tumbled from her right eye. Despite the darkness, the Hound saw it, and he swept it away with a thick, dirty finger. Sansa could feel the trembling in his hands as he did it, as his rough knuckle brushed the paper-thin skin beneath her eyelashes.

"Take me away from here," she whispered, almost inaudibly. "Take me home, Sandor."

* * *

A Baratheon man grabbed the Hound by the shoulder as they neared the Iron Gate at last, and the Hound pushed the soldier off of him as though the other man weighed nothing at all. Stannis' man fell to the ground in a pathetic tumble, far enough away for Sansa and the Hound to dash madly away.

"There's too much fire!" Sansa heard him say again, for the tenth time since they'd left the Red Keep. "Everything's on fire!"

He wasn't being as brave as she'd expected him to be, for, indeed, King's Landing was burning. They were surrounded by flames, by smoke, by the heat and smell and feel of fire. Overwhelmed and panicked, the Hound had gone into a bit of a frenzy as they'd made their way toward the Iron Gate, and Sansa had had to shriek at him once or twice to wait for her as she'd run frantically in the wake of his enormous strides.

At last they were there, at the point where they could leave the city, but so were hundreds of smallfolk who were desperate to get out of King's Landing. They were crowded around the gate, pushing and surging like a human tide. Sansa felt her head whirl as she saw people fall under the crush of the crowd, and she clutched the Hound's arm.

"We can't -" she began, but he interrupted.

"I shall do as I please," he said firmly.

Then Sansa had felt herself being hauled up and over the Hound's shoulder, and she pounded on his back and screamed for him to put her down *at once*, but he paid her no heed. She could see nothing but the trampled dirt path beneath them, illuminated by the orange glow of the flames. She heard the voices of the frantic crowd of smallfolk growing closer, and Sansa grew acutely afraid.

"Please, Sandor," she sobbed into the armor that was cold on her cheek, but he again ignored her, plowing ever forward. Then they were in the midst of the crowd, and Sansa felt herself being jostled about, felt the Hound tighten his grip on her, and then felt a sharp blow to her head.

And then it was black, and dark, and cold, and there was nothing at all.

_No flames, no crowd, no Red Keep, no Joffrey, no beatings, no Hound. Nothing. Peace._

* * *

A/N: I know this chapter is very short, but it's just a basic intro to the story. I'll be updating very frequently, as I'm wont to do when writing a new story, and I feed off of reviews as does a vampire from blood. Thank you for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing Sansa sensed was the smell of grass, strong in her nostrils as though she were lying on the ground. Then she sensed the firm, cool flatness of the earth beneath her body, and she decided that she was lying on the ground.

Her eyes still shut tightly, Sansa crinkled her fingers and felt damp soil between them.

"Is it day or night, I wonder?" she thought to herself, and she prepared herself to crack open her eyelids and be blinded by sunlight.

Instead, she opened her eyes, then shut them again, and opened them once more, quite convinced that she had gone blind, for the night was so very dark that she could see absolutely nothing at all.

"H-hello?"

Sansa sat up shakily, ignoring the constant thud in the side of her skull. Her eyes adjusted to the darkness, and at last she could just make out the silhouette of The Hound, seated against a tree trunk before her.

"Hush, little bird," he whispered, more gently than Sansa had expected him to do. "Don't want to be heard here, not even by the trees themselves."

Sansa suddenly felt too far away from him, from the perspective of her safety. The last thing she remembered was being jostled about in the crowd at the Iron Gate. How far had they come before stopping here? Had they passed a whole day and into a new night while Sansa had been sleeping?

She asked The Hound these questions, and was beginning to ask more as she crawled over moss and twigs toward where he sat propped against the large tree trunk. Sansa could smell him from here - wine, and his usual masculine aroma, but the stink of blood was gone from him. Sansa would have thought to see a glint of his armor in the sliver of moonlight, but he was matte and dark. Her dress and hair felt sopping wet, as though she'd been caught in a downpour. Curious now, Sansa ceased her line of questions and reached out in the black night to touch Sandor's chest.

"Why are we soaking wet?" she asked quietly, her fingers sinking into his doublet as if it were a sponge. "Did it rain?"

"We are in the Kingswood. Had to cross the Wendwater," Sandor answered, his voice so quiet it was almost lost in the darkness between them. "Swam across with you. Your dress... I had to leave it behind. I'm sorry."

Sansa, horrified, felt her eyes turn into circles of terror, and though she knew The Hound could hardly see her, she looked quickly down at herself and covered her breasts and mound with her hands for modesty. She only now realized that she wore only her shift and smallclothes, and she recoiled at the thought of The Hound carrying her across the river with her improperly clothed.

She recoiled, and then she softened a bit, for in fact the more she thought about it, the more she liked the image in her mind. The Hound, stripping himself of the armor that would weigh him down in the river, taking her dress from her unconscious form, and swimming gallantly across the Wendwater with her in his strong arms.

Sansa felt her cheeks grow warm, and was suddenly glad there was darkness.

"Little bird?" she heard The Hound prompt, as though he'd asked her a question, and Sansa realized she'd been imagining his gallantry for a bit too long. She cleared her throat firmly and said,

"I thought you said we were going north."

"We will, but first we must go south. The first place they'll look for us is north, once they realize we are together. They'll know I've gone off to take you home. We will go from here to Storm's End, or somewhere nearby, and get a ship headed north. Stow away, if we must, but we will get north. Don't worry, little bird. You'll see that damned brother of yours again if it's the last task I accomplish."

Sansa flushed once more, and again she cleared her throat. "Ser," she began, though she knew Sandor hated being called a knight, "you have saved my life on several occasions. I shall see to it that my brother justly rewards you when he and I are reunited."

The Hound laughed then, too loudly for a situation where they were supposed to be hiding. Sansa blushed again, this time from embarrassment and fear, and looked around frantically, expecting to see archers materialize from nowhere and shoot them both.

"What on Earth is so funny?" Sansa hissed at Sandor.

"I can just see your face as you said that to me," he replied gruffly. "Little bird with her beak high in the air, squawking about rewards." Sandor laughed again, under his breath.

Sansa felt her eyes well with humiliated, hurt tears, and she sniffled gently. "Are we to continue walking tonight?" she asked, trying to keep her voice from cracking with tears. There was a very long silence before The Hound replied.

"No," he finally said, sighing as he leaned back against the tree trunk. "Too dangerous, too dark in this part of the forest. We will continue in the morning."

"All right." Sansa dissolved into tears. She didn't know quite why; part of it was being teased by The Hound, and part of it was traumatic recollection of their escape of King's Landing. But part of it was of an origin entirely unknown.

"Now I've gone and made you cry," Sandor sighed again, sounding rather annoyed. "I'm sorry, little bird. I tease too much."

"My name... My name is Sansa," she insisted, gathering her wits and swiping tears from her eyes forcefully. "I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell."

"You're my little bird," The Hound replied, very softly indeed. He reached through the darkness and pushed a damp tendril of Sansa's hair away from her face, tucking it blindly but deftly behind her ear. "You'll always be my little bird, even once you've flown away."

Sansa froze. His hand felt different this time. Sandor Clegane had touched her several times before, had spoken to her many times. This time, he sounded different, felt different. And he wasn't as drunk now as he had been. What was making him speak to her this way?

"I flew away from my birdcage," Sansa whispered, fluttering her blue eyes shut, "only because you gave me wings."

She felt a soft pressure on her lips then, and she knew it was him kissing her. She was unsurprised, for his teasing had so quickly turned into... This.

Sansa moved to kiss him back, to part her lips and allow him entry into her mouth so their tongues could dance the way she'd heard it was supposed to be done. But Sandor had already pulled away from her and was leaning back against the tree again.

She abruptly felt empty, felt a pit in her stomach as though something very strange had just happened. The night was hot and sticky, and yet Sansa felt cold and blank. Against the tree, Sandor cleared his throat somewhat awkwardly, and Sansa could just make out his silhouette as he swiped the back of his hand across his lips.

Sansa sat there in the night, her hands folded neatly across her knees, blinking steadily. The silence was broken only by the chirping of crickets and the other insects of the forest, and by the gentle rustling of leaves overhead. She lost track of time as she sat in the quiet, contemplating that The Hound had kissed her, even if it were the briefest of kisses.

When at last they spoke, they spoke at precisely the same moment, their words drowning out each other's.

"Thank you, Sandor," Sansa said.

"I'm very sorry, Sansa," Sandor said.

Once each of them had realized what the other had said, that their words were so far apart in meaning and emotion, silence again took over.

Eventually, the throbbing in Sansa's head grew too strong for her to bear, and she lay back down on the grass. She was drifting off to sleep, losing touch with the night around her, when she began to feel Sandor's hand gently stroking her hair. She could feel his large, rough fingertips coursing over her auburn waves, comforting her with their steady course.

Or perhaps she only imagined it. Perhaps it was the very beginnings of a dream.

* * *

"Get me Lady Sansa." King Joffrey ran his fingertips over the smooth brass of the handle of the sword at his hips. "I want her to kneel before me and tell me how brave I've been. Then she will hear about how her brother is next."

He laughed, his voice sinister, and he paced anxiously through his bedchambers. His manservant bowed and backed out of the room, mumbling, "Your Grace..."

Joffrey cracked his knuckles as he waited for the manservant to return. He would tell that stupid Stark bitch all about how her brother Robb would kiss Joffrey's royal cock as he submitted... Just before they lopped off his head and put it on a spike, that is. It was too bad Stannis had escaped, or Joffrey would be able to make a more apt comparison... "Just like my Uncle Stannis. Your brother will know worse than that."

The manservant knocked timidly on the door again, and Joffrey excitedly barked, "Enter!"

"Your Grace," the manservant lowered himself to his knees apologetically. "I very, very much hate to be the bearer of this news, but it seems that Lady Sansa has... escaped... With Sandor Clegane, Your Grace."

At first, Joffrey didn't entirely comprehend what the manservant said, simply because he said it too quietly. Then, once the man's words sank in, Joffrey felt himself boiling with rage. He stormed over to where the manservant knelt, and he kicked the man square in the head.

"Traitor bitch!" Joffrey roared.

Later, he stormed into the room where his grandfather was speaking with his mother and members of his council.

"Find me my dog, and find me the traitorous cunt Sansa! I don't care if we send a thousand men to do it! I will not rest until the rest of that dog's body has been burned alive along with his miserable face! And as for Sansa Stark... I will shove a red-hot poker down her throat and drown her like a cat! I will not rest until their heads are surrounded by flies on the Iron Gate!"

* * *

When Sansa awoke again, the dawn was just being born upon the cerulean horizon. She was sore, having not moved at all in hours, and she could hear The Hound snoring behind her. Sansa wondered how on earth she had managed to sleep through such snoring.

She moved to sit up, and as she did, Sandor Clegane's hand flopped from her head, falling with a thud onto the ground beside her.

He'd fallen asleep stroking her hair.

A/N: Thanks in advance for any reviews! Feedback is beloved!


	3. Chapter 3

"Sandor...?"

Sansa whispered his name gently, almost hoping the breeze would carry it away. She wanted him to stay sleeping, wanted to maintain this quiet truce between them, but he stirred in response to his name.

"Morning," he growled, and it didn't sound very much like a salutation.

The sky was lightening, and Sansa could see that her shift, though now dry, was regrettably translucent. She cast her forearm in front of her bosom, trying to look casual about it, and averted her eyes from The Hound.

Then she remembered that he'd kissed her, and that she'd liked it, and that they'd both fallen asleep with his fingers entwined in her hair, and her arm fell from before her. Sansa suddenly didn't care very much if he saw shadows beneath the linen.

"We need to move," Sandor said, and Sansa was shaken from her reverie. Sandor stood from where he sat, and Sansa realized again that he'd left his armor on the other side of the Wendwater. But then, he would have needed to do so, for Sandor's armor was comprised of heavy plates and layers of chain mail that would have drowned them both in the river.

Instead, she could see that he wore a lightweight woolen shirt, dark gray in color, and black woolen trousers. He was barefoot, having left his boots behind, as well. He had managed to bring his sword, which was strapped across his chest.

"I don't suppose you have any food," Sansa said rather mournfully, looking Sandor up and down as her stomach growled.

"No, I don't suppose I do," he replied simply, shrugging. He brushed by Sansa and stepped over twigs and stones with his bare feet as though he didn't care at all about his lack of footwear, and he muttered, "Follow me, little bird."

"We have nothing at all, then?" Sansa said incredulously. "We have no clothes, no food, no money. How are we to survive?"

Sandor whirled around then, and his eyes were menacing. "You have me," he reminded her, "and I have this." He touched the hilt of his sword with his fingertips. "We don't need any fucking shoes. Now, follow me."

Sansa did as he bade her, and not another word was spoken for hours. Sansa walked through the forest without complaining aloud, though she did plenty of complaining in her mind. Her feet were aching and bleeding by the time Sandor held his hand up to signal Sansa to hold. She froze, glancing around to see what had attracted Sandor's attention.

Then she saw it, a fleeting flash of black among the green ferns. It was a bear. Was Sandor actually going to try to catch a bear and kill it with his sword? The thought was ridiculous, and, yet, the fierce roar of Sansa's stomach and the faint wooziness she was beginning to feel told her she didn't care how Sandor obtained food, only that he did it.

But then she had a vision in her mind of Sandor mauled to death as he tried to fight the bear, and she panicked, feeling fear roil her stomach in place of hunger.

"Sandor, don't -" she began, but Sandor cut her off.

"I'm not going to wrestle a bear, foolish girl," he whispered, rolling his eyes at Sansa. "The bear knows where fish are, where berries are, where running water is. We shall watch it from afar."

"Oh." That made sense, and suddenly Sansa felt rather stupid for her hand-wringing. Foolish, he had called her, and she thought she probably was.

An hour later, they were sitting on the banks of a stream, munching on wild strawberries and raw trout.

"Have you ever eaten a fish without cooking it, little bird?" The Hound asked with a low chuckle. "I should reckon a highborn lady like yourself is quite used to having trout served to her upon a platter, sprawled across leaves of lettuce, with fruits all about his face."

Sansa frowned. She bit into a strawberry. The juice ran down her lip in what she thought was probably a very un-ladylike fashion, so she dabbed gently at her skin with the pad of her finger.

"Why must you always mock me?" Sansa asked then. "You said last night that you tease too much. You do. It's true. You tease and mock and make fun until someone cracks, but you keep teasing until you smash someone's heart to bits like glass."

"That someone being you?" The Hound posited, chewing thoughtfully upon a bite of trout.

"You confuse me!" Sansa exclaimed. She threw a berry core onto the ground beside her, and Sandor's eyebrows raised in alarm. "You mock me, say I'm foolish and flitty, and then you kiss me and touch me while I sleep! Which is it? Am I your little bird or am I simply an idiot to be shamed?"

Sandor gulped heavily then, and he rose from where he sat. Wordlessly, he crouched down in front of Sansa and cupped her jaw in his enormous hand. "You are no idiot," he murmured, and for once he did not sound the least bit drunk. "I tease you, Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell, because I like you very much. But a man such as myself isn't privy to a lady such as yourself, even if I weren't a monster and even if I could sing you pretty songs like a True Knight. But I am a monster, Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell, and I can't sing you pretty songs. All I can do is tease you, and hope that one day it'll be enough to earn me a slap upon my cheek, that I will have earned the feel of your fingers on my skin."

Sansa tried hard to ignore the burn in her eyes, and she blinked away the tears forming there. She sniffled a bit, taken aback by the sudden expression of emotion by a man who normally portrayed himself as a stone wall parading as a human man.

"You... You are not a monster," she reassured him, looking away so that she did not cry.

"Yet you still can't look upon my face... If not a monster, then an aberration, surely."

Sansa furrowed her brow, angered to hear Sandor speak in such a way about himself. She steeled herself and stared directly at him. A wiry tendril of brown hair hung in front of his eyes, and Sansa swept the hair away before pressing her lips softly against Sandor's burned skin. She prayed to the Mother that she wasn't hurting him, for when she kissed him there, Sandor sucked in breath a bit.

But then she felt his hands on her back, felt the warm push of his palms through the thin fabric of her shift, felt the gentle dig of his fingertips into the flesh of her back as he willed her to stay near him. Sansa pulled back, if only to look again into his eyes, but Sandor pressed her cheek against his and sighed,

"Don't leave me, little bird."

"I came with you, didn't I?" Sansa reminded him. "I'm here."

Sandor pulled back then, slowly, and looked as if he were waking up from a dream. He stared at Sansa for a moment, and a look resembling distrust crossed his face. He pursed his lips and shook his head and sighed.

"Come on," he said gruffly, "Lunch is over. If we keep walking, we can camp overnight and be near Bronzegate by midday tomorrow."

"Bronzegate?" Sansa repeated, her eyes widening. "And what shall we do there?"

"You'll have to get food and clothes for us," Sandor shrugged, "in one of the villages outside Bronzegate. I'm far too recognizable with this damnable face; you'll have to say you were robbed on the Kingsroad by the Mountain Clans. It's actually a very realistic tale to tell."

Now rather paranoid about who else was in the forest, Sansa looked around the woods with a start.

"Don't worry, little bird. I shall keep you safe," Sandor guaranteed, putting his hand reassuringly upon Sansa's shoulder. They both stared at his hand after a moment, and Sandor self-consciously removed it, clearing his throat.

As his hand fell from Sansa's shoulder, she seized it, wrapping it around her own little hand in a protective fashion.

"I should like it very much if you held my hand. I'm frightened now that you've mentioned Mountain Clans," she lied, though there was perhaps an ounce of truth in it. It didn't matter.

Sandor smiled wryly, crookedly, and turned to guide them toward Bronzegate, Sansa's hand clasped in his.


	4. Chapter 4

Bronzegate was the seat of House Buckler, and the lords of House Buckler had sworn their allegiance to Renly Baratheon, then to Stannis Baratheon.

Or so Sandor Clegane believed. At least, that was the last he'd heard of the situation.

* * *

As he and Sansa Stark marched ever nearer the edge of the kingswood, Sandor began to feel a rising tension in his gut, a nervousness he could neither place nor control. It was fear. He didn't feel it often, usually only in the presence of fire or sometimes when his brother Gregor was very near, but Sandor disliked very much being beholden to fear. Fear made men weak, and weak men were unreliable.

He cleared his throat and released Sansa's hand. Other things, too, made men weak and dangerous, and holding the hand of a lovely highborn girl as he strutted barefoot and armor-less through the kingswood would do little to protect either of them.

"Is something the matter?" Sansa asked from beside him, shaking her hand out as Sandor had been clutching it firmly for hours now.

"We need to be on guard," Sandor informed her tersely, "There will be others in these parts."

"I feel much safer holding your hand," Sansa pressed, and for an instant Sandor nearly took her hand back, nearly gave his little bird her way, for she was extraordinarily convincing as he looked upon her lovely pouting face in the dappled shadows of the setting sunlight.

Then Sandor thought the better of it, for women who always got their way made men weak.

He huffed gruffly and turned away from her, walking ever onward, hearing the crunch of twigs beneath his feet but no longer feeling anything at all beneath his soles, for they were so worn from the exertion of walking barefoot through the kingswood that Sandor now ignored sensation from them entirely.

Sansa, apparently, could not do the same.

"May we stop soon, please?" she asked timidly from behind him. "I shall need a drink of water soon, and my feet… I simply can't take it anymore."

Sandor was going to mock her for her highborn slippered feet that couldn't be bothered to walk barefoot. He was going to tease her for whining, tell his little bird that she was squawking in a most unpretty fashion.

But when he turned around with an impatient sigh and glanced down at Sansa's feet, the mockery died on his lips. Her feet were chewed up from their march, raw and bleeding, and Sandor knew that Sansa must be in more pain than she was letting on. Seeing the blood on her flesh reminded Sandor of the first time he'd wiped blood from her lip upon seeing her beaten at Joffrey's command. There had been many times since then that Sandor had cleaned Sansa up after a beating ordered by the boy king.

Fuck the king.

Sandor felt discomfort in his chest, a tightness there, and he swallowed hard to try to make it go away.

"The sun's going down, in any case," he muttered. "Wouldn't be of any use to continue much farther."

They only walked until they found a little brook, one from which they could drink and beside which they would spend the night.

Sansa knelt beside the brook and bent over the water. She dipped her hands into the stream and pulled out some water, then stared into her hands at her reflection for some time. The water wiggled its way through her fingers and leaked out until there was none left, and then Sansa looked forlornly at Sandor.

"You should drink, little bird," he said, and she sighed,

"I look terrible."

"There's nobody here who cares what you look like. And, anyway, you look… lovely, as always." Sandor had only meant to reassure Sansa, to make her stop complaining, but he'd complimented her, and he felt his cheeks grow warm as he uttered the words. He averted his eyes, but out of his peripheral vision he saw Sansa grin crookedly to herself. She enthusiastically dipped her hands back into the water and drew some out again, this time sipping it voraciously. It was as though Sandor's words had given her the strength to drink. She was feeding off of his affection just as much as she was off of wild strawberries and water.

The way she was kneeling allowed Sandor to see the soles of her feet more closely, and he could now see that there were deep rifts in her flesh, that her soft skin had been sliced and carved by the branches and stones over which they'd marched for the past night and day.

"Let me clean out your feet, little bird," he directed her, reaching for her left foot. Sansa recoiled, pulling her bare foot away from Sandor.

"They are very sore," she explained apologetically, but Sandor knew that her reaction was a result of the constant beatings she'd endured. Once she was hurt, she retreated.

He reached out again, more cautiously this time, and guided her foot into the water. Sansa hissed when her foot touched the cool stream, and she gaped when Sandor reached for the hem of his woolen shirt and tore at it, ripping off a piece of the cloth so he could clean her wounds.

"If they have dirt so deep in all the wounds, little bird, they shall fester, and you won't be able to walk at all. Then you're no good to either of us."

Sansa allowed Sandor to pull her wet foot up onto his lap as he folded his legs neatly and began to examine her sole. Then he dipped his makeshift wool rag into the stream and coursed it over her marred flesh, eliciting another hiss of pain from Sansa.

"There are pebbles in this cut," Sandor noted, sighing as though irritated.

"I'm sorry," Sansa said, and Sandor was struck by her extreme sense of propriety… apologizing for her injuries. He glanced up from where he was closely examining her foot and grinned.

"I don't mind," he said wryly. Then, pulling his sword from its sheath, he carefully gripped the middle of the blade near the tip and aimed it for Sansa's foot.

"Wait - what are you doing?" Sansa retracted her foot, pulling it away from Sandor hastily. He chuckled darkly and pulled her foot back toward him.

"I shan't be cutting off your pretty foot, little bird," he assured her. "I'm going to carve the stones out of your wound."

"Will it hurt very badly?" Sansa asked, cupping her hand fearfully around her cheek.

"Yes." Sandor did not lie, but his answer hardly seemed to give Sansa any comfort. Just before he put the blade to her foot, he glanced up and said softly, "Be brave, little bird. It's only for a moment."

She nodded as if to give him permission, though he needed none, and he dug the tip of his sword into the deep cut that held the pebbles. One by one they popped out, accompanied by streams of blood, as Sansa whimpered in pain above Sandor. In an instant, he was done, having cleaned out many of his own wounds himself.

Her cheeks were streaming with tears and mottled pink as he guided her foot back into the water to rinse it off. When he pulled her foot back out of the brook, Sandor wrapped the woolen cloth he'd torn from his shirt around her foot and tied it tightly, hoping it would serve well as a makeshift bandage.

He sat back then, and looked upon her. She quivered with pain and tears, her back heaving with each little sob, her fingertips trembling as they hovered near her eyebrows. Sandor abruptly felt the need to comfort her properly, weakness be damned. She was hurt, she was bleeding, and he'd done it to her. Sort of. Sandor pulled her torso tightly against his hard chest and felt her shake against him as she cried.

"I'm sorry, little bird," he said, for he did not know what else to say, and he did truly feel sorry for hurting her. "It was the only way. You did very well."

She looked up at him then, her wide sapphire eyes glowing in the twilight. She pressed her hands against his chest and parted her lips a bit, the bottom one still quivering from her crying.

"You simply must stop saving me, my lord, or I shall never be able to repay you in a hundred lifetimes."

Sandor gulped, for he felt an urge to kiss her again, and he knew he should not.

"Then stop getting into such trouble, damn you!" he said with a dark laugh. Sansa grinned back at him, at his little jest, and then she looked so tempting that Sandor could no longer resist. Why couldn't he kiss her? There was no one else here. The last time he'd done it, she'd tried to kiss him back. Why couldn't he? Who was stopping him?

He leaned down and planted his lips against hers, rather firmly, perhaps too firmly, but felt hers immediately open and yield to him. Then his tongue was in her mouth, rather of its own accord, and Sandor felt a corresponding rise in his trousers. He grunted into the kiss without realizing he'd done so, for she was so lacking in grace here where elsewhere it was so abundant for her. It was endearing, the way she clumsily engaged his tongue with hers, the way she squealed when he nibbled upon her lip, the way her breath came quick and ragged from her nose.

Endearing, and, in another sense, an uncontrollable trigger of Sandor's desire. He needed to put a stop to this, right now, before it became something he could not take back. No one was stopping him from kissing her; no one was stopping him from fucking her. No. He needed to be the one to stop himself.

So he pulled away from her and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, clearing his throat and gulping as he looked at Sansa's wide-eyed, confused expression.

"I'm sorry that I hurt your foot, little bird," he said distractedly. "I'm… I'm going to find food."

And he left her there, sitting alone and injured beside the brook, as he forced himself to stand and wander off into the forest, his sword clutched tightly in his hand.


	5. Chapter 5

Sandor crouched in the ferns, waiting silently for the boar he saw to pass near enough for him to spear it with his sword. The animal snuffed about in the underbrush, and Sandor was so still he could scarcely feel breath moving in and out of his lungs. For long moments he waited and waited as the boar snarfed up bits of the forest that it wanted to eat.

Finally, the beast was close, and Sandor lunged out of the ferns, leapt at the boar with all his might, sword wielded above his head… and he brought it down onto naught but leaves and twigs.

The boar squealed loudly and wriggled its way out of Sandor's arms before he could stab the thing. Sandor struggled to get to his feet in time to chase the beast, but it was no use. The prey was lost.

"Fuck!" Sandor muttered, tossing his sword angrily at the ground. He stood alone, towering over the forest floor, surrounded by thick greenery, a light breeze blowing his curled brown hair into his eyes. Angrily, Sandor bent to retrieve his sword, and when he did, he noticed a little green ribbon beneath it.

Sandor picked up the ribbon, a vibrant emerald silk, and studied it in the dappled sunlight. It was Sansa's. He'd seen it in her hair only hours before, and it must have come off her hair and gotten stuck up his sleeve… when he'd embraced her, Sandor thought wistfully, that must have been when it happened. When he'd kissed her, her ribbon must have come off and drifted up the sleeve of his woolen shirt.

Sandor could see it now, as though he were reliving the kiss from on high… his large, rough fingers tangled in Sansa's auburn waves, her own little hand pressed against his burned flesh, while their tongues danced awkwardly between them.

"Fuck," Sandor muttered again, this time sounding desperate even to himself. He sheathed his sword and balled the ribbon in his fist. What was he to do about the damned Stark girl? She wasn't even fully clothed, for fuck's sake, and he was meant to - what? Escort her all the way to Winterfell without laying a hand on her? The Hound did not possess that sort of chastity.

Especially not when it came to Sansa.

Sandor trudged back toward the stream where she waited, feeling the silk ribbon soft against his palm, and thought with a twinge of embarrassment how many times he'd touched himself to thoughts of her, to imaginations that she would strip off her lovely custom dresses and be nude and resplendent before him. But she was Joffrey's, and so was he. They belonged to the King, in their own separate ways. Or, at least, they had done. No more.

Fuck the king.

Sandor would be returning back to the stream much earlier than Sansa was likely to expect him, for the sun had not yet dipped below the horizon, and he was going back empty-handed. But it was quite impossible to hunt with a sword, and they would be unable to cook anything over a fire, anyway. That would be far too conspicuous. So game wasn't even truly an option. No, they would have to make do again with wild strawberries and perhaps some more raw fish, and hope they didn't become ill from either.

He was nearing the stream now. He knew it because he could hear the water bubbling and coursing over the rocks. And he could hear something else, too. It was the unmistakable sound of a woman moaning in the throes of pleasure. Sandor had heard plenty of whores mimic the sound, for though he knew they were more often in agony, such girls were very good at smiling and groaning their way through paid relations.

But this was no whore. This was Sansa. It had to be her. Sandor drew his sword slowly, as quietly as he could manage, unsure of what he would see as he neared the clearing where they'd set up near the stream.

He peeled back a lightweight branch so that he could see through a tree, and there she was, lying there on her back beside the brook, the sunlight casting dancing shadows upon her as she wantonly touched herself. Sandor's eyes went wide and he swallowed heavily.

"What are you doing, little bird?" he whispered softly to himself, placing his sword silently back into its sheath.

What Sansa was doing, to be precise, was lying on her back on the grass, her shift up around her bent knees, which were parted slightly. Her fingers twisted around in her quim as though she were trying hard to reach her pleasure as quickly as she could manage, before Sandor was supposed to come back.

Clearly, he supposed, their earlier kiss had made her quite amorous, and she had worked herself into the frenzy in which Sandor now beheld her. Her cheeks were flushed red, and her auburn hair was sprawled around her like a halo upon the grass. Her toes curled into the ground, digging for release as she arched her back into her hand.

Sandor felt his balls tighten and pull against his body, felt his cock instantly fill and harden and stand at attention in his trousers, and he knew he must stay hidden at all costs. He retreated a step into the forest and thought he ought to turn away, ought not to be watching his king's betrothed touch herself like this.

Fuck the king, Sandor said once more, and he brought his right hand to the front of his trousers and yanked on the leather knot there, loosening the ties that bound his cock in its fabric confines. He freed himself and felt his warm, throbbing length fill his hand, and he instantly imagined his cock in the place of Sansa's fingers.

He could see himself now, mounting her right where she was on the grass beside the brook, pounding her until she screamed his name, until she begged for mercy or more or whichever felt better. He could see himself fucking her - no, making love to her, right there.

Instead, he jacked himself so ferociously that he knew his own release was only moments away, that in an instant he'd be flooded with the explosive manumission that came when his seed spilled. Sansa was close, too. He could tell, for her hand was frantically darting about now, her fingertips plunging in and out while her other hand clutched at her breast and fiddled her nipple through the thin material of her shift.

"Ugh!" The Hound heard Sansa Stark exclaim, and he grew all the more excited at the sound of her voice. Sandor lost it then, and everything was a bright burst of white around him. His ears were hot and ringing, and his seed leaked forth in spurts as he clutched his member tightly. His flesh tingled, every inch of it, and his breath shook on his lips as he panted.

Sandor forced his eyes to wrench back open, for he wanted to see Sansa finish, too. He was jolted back to reality, back to the painful knowledge that he was nothing but a deformed old monster, when Sansa, in her moment of climax, parted her lips and murmured,

"Oh… Ser… Loras…"

* * *

A/N: Oh, no! Poor Sandor! I'm sorry this is so brief; I had only about 15 minutes to write it. I will update tomorrow, and in the meantime please be so kind as to leave a review and let me know what you think of the story thus far. Thank you kindly!


	6. Chapter 6

"Your Grace."

Lord Varys bowed low as a very angry King Joffrey came storming down the corridor. Varys wasn't sure what exactly the King wanted, but he wanted to be sure to be on the boy's good side today. Word was the monarch was more irate than anyone had ever seen him, for his betrothed his bodyguard had gone missing, and none had heard from nor seen the pair.

There was nothing that could irritate an irritable young ruler as effectively as his daughter-of-a-traitor prisoner disappearing with his traitor servant.

Joffrey stormed past Lord Varys, completely ignoring the existence of the elder statesman. Varys stood upright in the king's wake. This must mean there had been no sight of them west, either. Riders had been looking north ever since the two had been noticed missing in the wake of the Blackwater, but since Sandor Clegane's horse Stranger was still in the stables, it was assumed the two had escaped on foot and that the two would not have gotten far.

The search party had begun by looking north, of course, in the direction of Winterfell, for that made the most sense. When it seemed the riders had gone farther than Clegane and Sansa could have made it, they'd headed west toward the Reach. It seemed doubtful indeed to Lord Varys that Clegane and Sansa would have headed straight into Tyrell country.

That was why Varys had sent a rider of his own, a bird on a horse, if you will, south toward Bronzegate and onward to the Stormlands, to awaken a flock of other birds. Varys' spies would keep a sharp lookout for Clegane and the girl, and send word back to King's Landing at once if and when they were spotted.

If there were going to be heads on spikes, Varys reasoned, his own head would not be one of them.

* * *

Sandor spent that night with Sansa's head on his lap, for that was where she had put it before she fell asleep.

"I can't spend another night with my head among the insects on the ground," she had complained, and Sandor had foundhis little bird to be too shrill in that moment. He had simply nodded, and given her a meek little smile, and guided her head onto his lap. He did not pet her hair as he had done the night before, for he would have felt filthy and unwanted doing so.

"Are you quite all right?" Sansa had asked minutes later, after some time during which the only sound that passed between them was the forest's nighttime music.

"I'm fine," Sandor had insisted gruffly, though of course he felt completely dead inside, humiliated and broken, a smaller man than the Imp himself.

As Sansa slept, her little body heaving gently with each slow breath, Sandor felt himself wracked with a thousand self-deprecating questions: How could he honestly believe that he, The Hound, would trigger such bliss in a woman like his little bird? How could he touch himself, thinking it was him in her mind and not some true knight? Why had he been surprised to hear Loras' name escape her ruby lips? Why had Sandor tucked his softening member back into his breeches, mortified and red-faced, and retreated back into the woods for two hours like a beaten dog? Why?

That was the prevailing, over-arching, ever-present question. Why? Later in the night, the questions turned from the whipping to the pitying, the desperate.

Why had she made him see her do such a thing? Had she known he was there, watching her? Did she replace Sandor's name on her lips with Loras' out of embarrassment?

Then, just before dawn, Sandor returned to despising himself, and everything felt normal and right again. Sansa woke at dawn, stirring on Sandor's lap and rousing him from a semi-hypnotic reflection on his lack of desirability.

"I'm so very hungry," were the first words out of her mouth, for all she'd eaten in days now had been wild strawberries and raw fish, and Sandor could feel his head pounding for want of wine.

"We will be at the villages outside Bronzegate by noon if we start now," Sandor informed her matter- of-factly, for he'd traversed the Kingswood time enough to know its size well. "Let's go, Lady Sansa."

He must have sounded more angry, more firm, than he'd intended, for she looked up at him with deep concern in her eyes.

"What did you just call me?"

Sandor shook his head, confused. He began to pull himself off the ground, brushing twigs and leaves from his woolen trousers and shirt.

"You just called me 'Lady Sansa,'" she said, sounding annoyed. She crossed her arms over her chest and furrowed her brow. "Why is it 'little bird' all the times before this, and now very abruptly, it is 'Lady Sansa'?"

Sandor chuckled. "You have scolded me before, My Lady, for being too casual with you. It shall be 'Lady Sansa' henceforth. Let us walk."

They started out, and Sansa pouted quite huffily beside Sandor until at last she spoke.

"You can not kiss me and hold me near you and tell me I am your 'little bird,' and then do this," she insisted. "I thought..."

But Sandor felt his ears grow hot with rage at her words, for her hypocrisy overwhelmed him. Did she even realize what she was saying?

"Perhaps you ought to take up the matter with Ser Loras," Sandor mumbled, and he immediately regretted saying it, for then Sansa said shrilly,

"I beg your pardon?"

Sandor stopped walking, paused, and turned to look at Sansa. Well, now he was in it. "I said, perhaps you ought to take up the matter with your beautiful true knight, Ser Loras."

He turned back toward the road and continued walking briskly, so quickly indeed that Sansa could scarcely keep up with his enormous strides even when she quickly trotted, limping heavily on her injured foot.

"Did you... Did you see me yesterday?" she demanded breathlessly from beside Sandor, sounding horrified and pained.

Sandor did not stop walking. "And if I did?"

He could scarcely believe he was confronting her on the matter now, but there it was, and Sansa yanked hard on his bicep to force him to stop walking. Finally, Sandor did.

"What... What did you see?" Sansa demanded, her face flushed red from embarrassment and exertion as she stared wide-eyed up at Sandor. He looked away from her, focusing his eyes on a nearby fern, but Sansa insisted, "Look at me, Ser."

"I am no knight, and you know that full well," he said in reply, still not meeting her blue eyes. His low, growling voice trembled the slightest bit as he said slowly, "I saw my little bird with her legs apart, her fingers inside herself, her lips speaking the name of another man."

There was a very long moment in which the only sound Sandor perceived was the screech of a hawk overhead, and then he heard Sansa's voice crack as she said softly, "Sandor, please look at me."

He did, finally, feeling his breath shake roughly as he struggled to control it. Sansa's eyes were rimmed with red and the sheerness of her shift was more evident than ever as she placed her hands flat upon Sandor's chest and murmured,

"Don't you understand? It was only him because it couldn't be you. You kissed me and it was so very, very wonderful, and I... I was quite afraid that if I imagined you, I'd... not be able to be a lady around you anymore."

Sandor seized Sansa's hands and brushed his thumbs gently over her palms, bringing her knuckles up to his chapped lips. He kissed her fingers, very gently indeed, and Sansa shivered.

"But I don't think I want to be a lady around you anymore, after all," she whispered, almost inaudibly.

Just as Sandor bent to move his lips from her knuckles to her mouth, he noticed a figure move in the corner of his eye.

In a flash, his sword was out of its scabbard and Sansa had been shoved behind him.

"Get off the road!" Sandor bellowed, and he pushed Sansa into the ferns. In a flash, he had grabbed the figure he'd seen. It was a child, a boy of no more than eight years, filthy and reeking and surrounded by flies, and Sandor pulled the boy from the shadows into his path.

"What are you doing here? What is your name?" Sandor demanded, pushing the tip of his sword up against the child's throat. The boy shook his head and shrugged wryly, but did not answer. Asking again, this time his voice a harsh roar, Sandor again received no reply from the boy.

Sandor wrenched open the boy's mouth, and in horror saw that the child's tongue had been cut out. And then Sandor knew... Lord Varys was after them.


	7. Chapter 7

Sansa shut her eyes against the sound of steel slicing through the child's throat, against the gurgle of the boy's blood. She squeezed her eyes shut more tightly than she knew she could and sobbed quietly, though she knew of course that Sandor was only doing what he must in order to protect them both.

"He belongs to Varys," Sandor reminded Sansa grimly as he tossed the boy's body haphazardly into the forest and covered it with leaves and ferns. "This means they're after us for certain now. We must get to the coast, get aboard a ship, more quickly than we'd thought. As soon as we arrive at a village, little bird, I'm taking a horse."

Sansa had nodded silently, feeling defeated. One moment they'd been standing together in the road, Sandor clutching Sansa's hands, and now he was frantically formulating a plan to get them out of Varys' faraway clutches. An hour later, she found herself hiding in the brush beside the road as Sandor snuck up upon the back of a farm outside a village.

"Stay here, little bird," Sandor had insisted, and he'd dashed off to take a horse from where it was tied to a stone wall. Sandor moved like a mouse, far more quickly and silently than his size would seem to let him do. Soon the thick-ankled blue roan was loosed from its binds, and Sandor was leading the beast from the paddock back toward where Sansa waited.

But then there was a sound from inside the thatched-roof farmhouse, and Sandor quickly mounted the blue roan stallion. He kicked the horse into a cantor toward Sansa, who crept out into the road cautiously. When the farmer who owned the horse appeared at the doorway of the farmhouse, waving his arms and cursing at Sandor, the hulking Hound reached his arm down for Sansa and exclaimed,

"Take my hand, little bird!"

He scarcely slowed the stallion as he passed Sansa, for the farmer was now dashing down the Kingsroad toward them. Sansa, feeling sick with alarm, reached up for Sandor and felt him clutch her entire bicep and place a firm hand on her back. Then she was wrenched up onto the horse, pulled aside the stallion's bare back in front of where Sandor was seated, and felt Sandor's arm close tightly around her waist. Then they were off, galloping away as quickly as they could from the devastated farmer.

Sansa looked back over Sandor's shoulder, but he murmured,

"Don't look back. Never look back."

* * *

The ship creaked noisily as it rocked to and fro on the turbulent stretch of sea between the mainland and Tarth, and Sansa wondered how it was that she was supposed to sleep.

She and Sandor had ridden for four days until they'd reached Storm's End, where Sandor had managed to find an old acquaintance, loyal unto the death to Stannis Baratheon, willing to put the two of them aboard a ship. This man, by the name of Manguss of Maefor, was a Stormlands-bred swordsman who had known Sandor since the men were young boys, somehow. Sandor seemed most unwilling to share how the two men had met.

In any case, Manguss had put Sandor and Sansa aboard a ship of his bound for Tarth, an island off of the Stormlands and home to Evenfall Hall. Once there, gods be good, they would convince the Evenstar to send them north, along the coast, sneaking past the mouth of the Blackwater until they reached the coast of the Vale of Arryn. Sandor hoped to gain the support of Willamen, maester of the Citadel at Longbow House just along the sea, where they would land their ship. Willamen, he reminded Sansa, was the seventeenth son of Walder Frey, and didn't the little bird remember that her brother Robb was betrothed to a Frey?

The plan seemed quite perfect, actually.

But as Sansa lay in her tiny cabin aboard the _Lamb_, she thought the ship was being anything but meek and tame like the animal for which it had been named. A little gentle swaying might rock her to sleep like a baby, but this terrific tossing was instead nearly knocking her from her bunk. She clutched her rough woolen blanket more tightly around her body, grateful for the ill-fitting green dress she'd been given by Manguss of Maefor before boarding the ship, for it was cold on the sea.

Just as Sansa found other things in her mind about which to complain, there was a creaking at her door more loud than before, and she knew it had been opened. Sansa reached for the rock beneath her pillow, the one she'd been smart enough to grab before they got on board, quite afraid that a sailor had come to rape her.

"Who is there?" she demanded loudly, unable to see in the darkness.

Then a huge, hulking figure moved his burned face into the tiny patch of moonlight in the cabin, and Sansa saw that it was him, it was Sandor, filling nearly the entire space with his form.

"Oh," Sansa said quietly. She had scarcely had time to remember over the last few days what their last true conversation had consisted of - her declaring that she didn't want to be a lady around Sandor anymore. Acutely aware of this now, she moved back against the wooden boards of the wall, smelling the cedar there, and thought perhaps it was ill-advised to say such a thing to a man like Sandor Clegane.

"I wanted... Ehh... Just checking to see how the seasickness is for you," Sandor said awkwardly, and though the cabin had felt adequately sized to Sansa before his arrival, it now felt very, very small, with him filling it so wholly.

"That's very kind," Sansa noted. "I'm fine. Thank you."

"I shall leave you to your sleeping, then," Sandor muttered, sounding embarrassed that he'd come at all, and he turned to maneuver himself from the room.

"I wasn't sleeping," Sansa assured him, too loudly, perhaps. He turned back and smiled crookedly.

"Nor I."

"Was the crashing about too much for you, too?" Sansa asked knowingly, but Sandor shook his head no.

"I... My head was somewhere else," he explained.

"And where was your head?" Sansa asked, her voice barely audible over the crash of the waves outside.

"Here, with my little bird," came his reply, after a moment.

They were silent then, for a good long while, before Sansa scooted a bit to the side and gestured for Sandor to sit beside her on her tiny bunk. He did, moving his hulking form beside her and filling the room even more with his scent of steel and salt.

Sansa took in that smell, of leather and wood and horse and the sea, and she felt a pressure between her legs which she was not accustomed to feeling in the company of men. She listened to his breath, steady in tempo but shaking a bit with nerves, and the pressure intensified. She reached out with her little hand and placed it flat on his hard chest, and even through his woolen shirt, she could feel the thumping of his heart. This sensation caused Sansa to feel a blossoming moisture betwixt her legs, added to the pressure, and she heard her own breath accelerate in her nostrils. Her stomach felt queasy, all of a sudden, and it was not from the motion of the waves.

Sansa shut her eyes and gulped hard, willing away the feelings roiling her body, but they grew stronger still when The Hound took her hand from his chest, brought her knuckles to his lips, and growled,

"Ah, yes. This is what I was doing before I was interrupted days ago."

He kissed her fingers, his lips brushing roughly over her soft skin, and then he cradled his own cheek in her palm and sighed with what sounded like a mix of resentment, contentedness, and desire. In reality, Sansa had no idea what Sandor was feeling.

She could only guess, could only hope, that he wanted her, at least a little bit. For that day that she'd touched herself on the banks of the brook, it had not been Ser Loras in her mind. She'd seen him - seen Sandor - every instant right up until her pleasure exploded, and only then had she forced him from her mind, for there was a twinge of fear there, too. She feared that if she let her thoughts run wild in such a way, that her actions would follow. But...

"It was you," Sansa said, her words a cracking promise, though she didn't explain what she meant as Sandor kissed her knuckles. "It was always you."

Sandor did not seem to need an explanation.

"May I kiss you, my lady?" he asked, now sounding as though he'd somewhat lost control of himself. His voice was rough and flinty, his breath coming hard and fast.

"I'm not a lady anymore," Sansa reminded him. "Not here."

Sandor seemed to take that as permission, and he moved his calloused hands to Sansa's silky cheeks and held them tightly. That feeling, of his hands enveloping her whole face, nearly overwhelmed her, but Sansa forced her eyes to stay open even in the darkness, for she knew how it hurt Sandor for her to shut her eyes against him. She could just see his eyes in the moonlight, glinting fiercely, and she met them with a fire of her own.

"Kiss me, please," she whispered, and he did.

His tongue entered her lips, at first cautiously, then more enthusiastically. Sansa thought as their mouths danced that he tasted like wine, and she hoped distantly that he wasn't here only because he was drunk.

She decided it didn't matter as she kissed him back as roughly as she could manage, her little arms slithering around his broad shoulders. She clutched his back as she licked the roof of his mouth, pulling a low groan from somewhere deep inside of him, and another one when she bravely nibbled upon his lip. His hands drifted from her cheeks to her neck, sending shivers down her spine as she sensed his strength, and then his hands continued lower until one rested upon her breast and the other upon the small of her back.

Finally, they needed to breathe properly, and they pulled away only until their lips were an inch apart. Sandor was panting furiously, and Sansa was sure she was, too. Curiously, Sansa let her own hand drift southward, until it came to rest between Sandor's thick thighs, where she felt a hard bulge in his woolen breeches, straining against its confines. In response to what she felt beneath her hand, Sansa's stomach churned again, and the moisture and heat in her own loins burst into flames.

"Do you want me?" she asked him, for though she knew the answer, she wanted to hear him say it. Sandor nodded, reluctantly, and yanked her hand from his bulge.

"Aye. I want you badly, little bird," he affirmed. He pulled himself from her bunk, wrenched the door open behind him, and shrugged his shoulders helplessly. "That's why I have to leave now."

Sansa felt her heart break, and she shook her head with confusion. "Why?" she demanded.

"You've never been with a man. I know it because I've watched you since you were brought to King's Landing. I covered your naked body with my cloak because I didn't want you bared before the men of the court. You were too young, too innocent. You still are, little bird."

Sansa shook her head again. "But I am here now, and I want you. I'm ready for you." She sounded like a shrill little girl, she knew, and she was not helping herself to make her own case.

Sandor bit his lip hard. "You want... A true knight."

"No!" Sansa interjected. Then she repeated, "It was you! Always, always, it was you."

"Your flower is meant for a lord more fair, more high, more noble than I." Sandor reached down to cup Sansa's cheek in his hand once more, and he planted a gentle kiss upon her lips. This time, the kiss left Sansa wanting, and she felt a physical ache for him when he pulled away. "I won't be the one to sully you, lovely little bird."

He turned to go, and Sansa felt her eyes burn as he did. She didn't know what she wanted. Right now she just wanted more kissing, more touching, but she'd heard that men could rarely be stopped at such things, and often their bodies wanted more. Perhaps Sandor was being more of a knight than he would care to admit, Sansa thought, for his unwillingness to deflower her on a whim made him the most chivalrous man she'd encountered in all her years.

A/N: sorry for the delayed update; we had a sleepless night around here! Thanks in advance for all reviews!


	8. Chapter 8

In the morning, when Sansa woke from a slumber deeper than she'd ever achieved, she realized with a pang of concern that the ship was no longer moving.

Curious, Sansa wrapped herself in the emerald green cloak she'd been given by Manguss and crept above decks. It was strangely silent and eerily foggy up top, the morning having just broken. The ship hardly rocked at all as it glided slowly through the still water.

Sansa stepped quietly over to the starboard side of the deck, clutching the old wooden railing with her slim fingers. She gazed down at the gray water, which was smooth as silk in the silent morning, and free of reflection entirely. She glanced up to try to find the horizon, but could see nothing for the thick wall of fog that surrounded the ship.

"Lost in a morning of endless night," she murmured to herself, and then a man' voice behind her said,

"We're not lost, m'lady."

Sansa startled and turned round, finding herself face-to-face with a sailor. The young man, perhaps twenty years of age, was handsome of face, with thick hair black as coal and piercing eyes the same grey as the sea. He was thin, almost gangly, and just a few inches taller than Sansa. He flashed her a brilliant smile and said again,

"Not lost at all. Captain knows precisely the way."

Sansa felt her guard go up, and she puffed herself up a bit and felt her nose edge skyward. "And how is that?" she demanded, "with neither star nor sun to guide him?"

"He's got the best dead reckoning in the Seven Kingdoms," said the young sailor haughtily, crossing his thin arms over his chest.

Sansa chuckled skeptically. "Oh? Does he? I should like some more assurance than that."

"Well, he's got me, as well. I'm Ronnick Snow. Very pleased to make your acquaintance."

Sansa felt her eyebrows crumple at the young sailor's gall, at his casual tone and his lack of regard for chivalry or station. He was a bastard, a bastard from the North. Nonetheless, she nodded and said quietly,

"I'm glad to know you, Ronnick."

She thought perhaps she ought to go below decks, to find Sandor, for there was something about the way the young man's gray eyes were studying her that was making her acutely uncomfortable. He was sizing her up, looking at every inch of her, as if she were a prize pony or a piece of meat. Sansa started to walk away, and from behind her, Ronnick said snidely,

"You ought to treat your allies better, you know. You're going to need us, Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell."

Sansa paused, for the briefest of moments, and then gulped heavily. Then she lifted the door that led below decks, determined to find Sandor and to get away from Ronnick as quickly as she could.

* * *

"Did he touch you, little bird? I shall kill the bastard myself."

Sandor was sitting groggily upon his bed, hungover with eyes filled with sleep, for Sansa had knocked upon his cabin door and opened it when beckoned, and she'd told him about her strange encounter with the young sailor above decks.

"N-no, he didn't... I just... Didn't care for the way he stared at me, that's all. Please don't make trouble, Sandor."

Sansa wrung her hands, abruptly regretting telling Sandor about the encounter at all, for now Sandor was reaching for his sword and rising from his bed. Sansa felt her eyes widen when he did, for Sandor wore no shirt, only linen smallclothes, and when he rose she could clearly see that he was hard inside his thin breeches.

She felt her blue eyes go round, felt them lock upon the front of his hulking form, and she wrenched them up to his eyes. Her cheeks grew hot, her ears rang, and bottom lip trembled with a mixture of arousal and embarrassment as she stammered,

"I... I... anyway, I don't want to make trouble. So, please don't make trouble. I shall... Ehh..."

She had backed up against the cabin door as she spoke, and, having now run into it, she flattened her palms against the damp wood and reached for the bar.

"Don't go." Sandor shook his head, chuckling gently. He took a step toward Sansa, cupping her cheek in his rough hand. Sansa leaned into his calloused touch and felt the warmth of his skin against her cheek, comforting and frightening all at once. She stared again at the tenting of his breeches, and Sandor half-smiled. He croaked, "That means nothing, little bird. All men wake with bones in their cocks."

Sansa reddened harder than ever, for he could be so crass, so coarse, and she liked it. Damn her body, but it responded when he spoke to her like that. She felt her nipples perk up at the thought of him hard inside his breeches. She felt the now-familiar pressure in her stomach churn and spread south between her legs. She squirmed against the door, against his hand, and she felt Sandor press himself against her. She felt his hardness on her abdomen, for he was so much taller than her. He towered above her, hovering overhead, his firm length pressing through Sansa's borrowed dress insistently. She felt it throbbing, felt the place where the head turned into shaft, as he rubbed it a bit against her, tipping his head back and making a low guttural noise as he reveled in the friction.

He looked back down at her, his eyes glowing with desire, and then Sandor asked, sounding slightly concerned,

"Was he very handsome? This young sailor?"

Sansa thought honestly about the question. The boy had been conventionally good-looking, no doubt. His sleek hair, his bright eyes, his lithe form... Ronnick was the sort of young man that made girls blush and swoon, but Sansa felt no attraction for him. Not when, in her mind and in her heart, she was comparing him to The Hound.

"He's not like you," Sansa admitted aloud. "I'd much rather have you."

Sandor looked a bit irritated, as if Sansa's words were platitudes. He furrowed his brow and tightened his grip on Sansa's cheek. His jagged nails dug roughly into her soft skin as he growled,

"Tell me the truth, little bird. Did the young sailor make you think of your true knights? The ones that make fingers dance in your cunny?"

Sansa felt her cheeks grow hot, this time from anger. Impulsively, she glared up at Sandor's half-burned face, replayed his questions in her mind, and then she slapped his good cheek as hard as she could. She ripped his hand from her cheek and shoved him away from her, thrusting her hands hard against his chest.

Sandor staggered backwards, his hand going from Sansa's cheek to his own as he reached up to feel the sting of her slap. His eyes widened with surprise at her reaction.

"How dare you?" Sansa demanded angrily, feeling all her emotions tumble forth in a choked sob. "How dare you lead me to think you cared for me in any way, that you wanted me, and then talk to me as though I'm a tavern whore? I am the daughter of Lord Eddard Stark! I was betrothed to the King of the Seven Kingdoms! You will never again lay a finger upon me, Ser, nor speak to me with such brazen disrespect!"

She turned to storm from the cabin, but found the lock of the door stubbornly jammed. She jiggled it furiously, crying out in frustration. The damp wood had swollen and the door was stuck shut, and Sansa slammed her palm against it with a growl of rage.

"My Lady? May I?"

His voice was gentle and sorrowful, coming from behind her, and Sansa turned hesitantly toward him. Sandor's cheek glowed red where she'd slapped him, and Sansa felt abruptly sorry for having done it. There was sudden awkwardness in the little cabin - she was acutely aware of the disheveled little bunk behind him, of his lack of clothing, of the tight wooden space and the heat therein.

Sandor gestured for Sansa to get out of his way so he could fix the door, and she did. Sandor shoved his fingers into the door jamb and wrenched it open, his back muscles flexing tightly as he did. Sansa gulped as she watched his feat of strength, forcing feelings of desire from her mind and reminding herself that she was angry with him.

Sandor turned around, gesturing to the open doorway. He bowed slightly, his stringy brown hair falling in front of his scarred face.

Sansa thought about leaving. She thought about storming out and not looking back. Wasn't that what he'd told her to do? Never look back. Right now, she couldn't do that. She wanted him... Needed him... Even if he had a filthy, jealous mind with the words to match.

Instead, she chewed her bottom lip for a moment, and then mumbled, "Shut the door and sit on the bunk... Please."

The corner of his lips twitched, in just the slightest hint of a knowing grin, and Sandor creaked the door shut again. He nodded. "As My Lady commands."

He sat on the bunk, spreading his knees wide. Sansa noticed that the hardness that had been in his smallclothes had decreased slightly, and she resolved to bring it back. She stood before him, in between his knees, and snaked her arms around his neck. She took his hands and planted them on her little waist, and she leaned forward to brush her soft lips against his rough ones.

"I'm sorry," she murmured against his mouth. "I was embarrassed. When you spoke about my..." She trailed off, reaching to seize one of his hands and placing it on the front of her dress, just over her mound.

Against her lips, Sandor's breath hitched. His calloused fingertips swept lightly over the green material, and at the gentle sensation, Sansa shivered and bucked her hips a bit.

"It's I who am sorry," Sandor insisted against her lips. "I was being a dirty, jealous old man. But it's hard not to be one when I've got a beautiful young lady filling my mind night and day alike."

"You said all men woke with 'bones' in their..." Sansa trailed off again and blushed hard. Sandor planted a gentle kiss on her lips and whispered,

"Their cocks, little bird."

Sansa gulped and nodded. Sandor was still brushing his knuckles against her mound through her dress, and she suppressed a moan as the sensation there grew ever more powerful.

"How do you make it go away?" she asked timidly. Some little part of her mind wanted to hear him tell her that he touched himself, that he thought of her and stroked himself until he came. She wanted to hear him tell her that, and she wasn't sure entirely why.

Sandor chuckled darkly, taking one of Sansa's hands and bringing it to his lips. He planted a kiss on her palm, and then he brought the hand to his lap. Sansa shut her eyes and gulped hard when she felt his firm length so clearly beneath her skin.

"It goes away on its own, eventually," Sandor answered, finally. "Or I can spill myself and then it's gone much faster."

Sansa felt as though her chest was going to explode, for her heart had begun to pound insistently inside her ribs. She moved her hand gently against the linen of Sandor's smallclothes, her eyes still clenched shut, and heard him suck in air.

His hand stilled against her dress as she began to stroke him. He instantly grew harder beneath her hand, longer and firmer. She had an urge, a sort of primeval longing, to take him in her mouth the way she'd heard talk of women doing for their lovers. She continued stroking his length and tip through the thin linen as she sighed with want.

She cracked her eyes open and looked at Sandor, whose head was tipped back. He was eyeing her, his lids heavy with desire, his lips parted slightly as his breath came heavy and thick. The good side of his face was red with arousal, his black scruff and his scars obscuring part of the flush.

"I want to taste you," Sansa whispered once their eyes met, and she was surprised when Sandor shook his head no. He looked pained to do so, as though the thought of Sansa's mouth on him (and the thought of turning such a thing down) was too much to bear.

"No, little bird," he insisted, his voice a low, rough growl. "I told you, I wouldn't be the one to sully you."

"Who, then? Joffrey?" Sansa demanded, her voice hurt. "Besides, I shall remain intact."

"It's an undignified thing to do, little bird, and you're too beautiful to dirty yourself with the likes of me, doing something like that..." Sandor shook his head again, and shut his eyes tightly against the feeling of Sansa's hand on his bulge.

Sansa took advantage of the moment that his eyes were closed, and she dropped swiftly to her knees. She reached for the ties on Sandor's smallclothes, and within an instant had him unlaced. Sandor put his hand upon Sansa's in order to stop her, and his eyes sprang open in shock to see her kneeling on the wooden floor of the tiny cabin, but Sansa nodded her reassurance and reached a trembling little hand inside of Sandor's linen smallclothes.

Sandor retracted his hand and nodded back, and in his characteristic low growl, he muttered, "Don't be afraid, little bird. Every man has one."

Sansa closed her hand around him then, and he hissed at the sensation, balling his huge hands into enormous, white-knuckled fists and pounding one on the thin mattress. Sansa whipped her hand away, afraid she'd hurt him, but Sandor begged through gritted teeth,

"Please, little bird, don't stop."

He reached with one hand and scratched anxiously at his beard as he shifted his weight on the mattress. He raked his fingers through his long hair and coursed his jittery fingernails over his burned cheek. Sansa watched him do it, and gradually resumed her touch on him.

She felt the silky flesh of his tip, the soft foreskin that pulled back each time she stroked him, and the firm thickness of his shaft. Curious, Sansa peeled back the linen of his smallclothes so she could see his member, and she was shocked at the notion that such a thing could ever fit inside a woman. Her hand didn't close around it, and she wondered how it was supposed to make its way into a lady's parts. Indeed, she was concerned that she would choke and gag horribly upon it, and she was beginning to regret offering her mouth to Sandor. She didn't realize her staring had made her hand stop moving until Sandor chuckled darkly,

"Well, what do you think? As grotesque as the face above it, eh?"

Sansa jolted, glancing up to meet his sad eyes. He flicked a little half-smile at her, prompting her response to his question.

"I think it is the most attractive thing I've ever seen in all my days," Sansa assured him with a wide grin, sounding more confident than she sounded, but Sandor chewed his lip knowingly.

"Stand up and kiss me," he requested. "A lady like you does not belong on her knees. Especially in front of a dog like me."

Sansa shook her head and pumped him harder, eliciting a low moan from the bottom of his chest. "I want you," she promised. "Please let me have you."

"You could have anything in the world you asked me for right now, little bird," he informed her, shifting once more with another groan as her hand moved on his shaft. "I'd dive overboard if you asked for a pearl."

"All I want is you," Sansa assured him, and with that she leaned forward, very unsure of herself indeed, and very uncertain of what she would discover. She parted her ruby lips and pushed his girth between them, surprised at his salty taste.

Sandor grunted rather loudly at the feel of her warm, wet mouth surrounding him, and his huge hands gripped the bunk tightly. When Sansa instinctively swirled her tongue around his tip, he jolted as though he'd been cut, and his hands shifted to her hair. He entangled his fingers in her copper waves, grasping desperately at her scalp. Sansa relished the feel of his fingertips on her head combined with the feel of his manhood in her mouth, and her own blossoming arousal began to expand.

As her hand and mouth moved in tandem on his member, Sansa felt moisture flood between her legs, felt a throbbing heat there crying for attention. She had an abrupt fear that he would finish in her mouth, and then that would be the end of their little game. The insistent pang in her quim, her hardened nipples, nagged for more than what was happening. Suddenly, Sansa pulled her mouth off of him and looked up into his wide eyes. He gazed down at her, panting furiously, his good cheek flushed red, and he asked cautiously,

"Are you all right?"

"Please take me," Sansa beseeched him. She felt a fool and a harlot for begging a man for relations, but she knew what her mind and body wanted. They wanted Sandor.

"I won't do that to you, little bird." Sandor shook his head, running his fingers through her hair. Sansa felt him soften a bit in her hand, as if her pleading had filled him with worry, and she suckled him for a while until he was hard again. As she did, the fire in her belly burned higher and hotter than ever, every inch of her screaming to be touched and kissed and loved by him.

"Please," she asked him once more.

"Come up here," Sandor instructed, and Sansa obeyed, for she thought he was going to lie her down on her back, hike up her skirts, and plunder her right then and there. Normally, the thought would fill her with terror, but at the moment it filled her with anticipation.

When she rose, Sandor snuck his hand behind her head and pulled her against him, until his face was burrowed between her ear and shoulder. Sansa shuddered at the feel of his hot breath on her flesh, and she startled and then moaned when she felt him begin to kiss her neck. She was lost in his kisses as they grew more intense, his tongue pressing insistently beneath her ear and tracing the line of her jugular. He sucked gently at her skin, nibbled lightly at her throat, until Sansa's moans were constant and his name was looping from between her lips.

So lost was she in his attentions that she didn't even notice that his hand had left her head and had hiked up her skirts, and was now creeping gently and slowly up the inside of her thigh. She didn't notice until his rough fingertips made contact with the lips of her lady's place, and then she collapsed against his chest and snaked her arms desperately around his shoulders. She realized with a twinge of sadness, and perhaps the tiniest bit of relief, that he was going to appease her desire without taking her maidenhead. His fingers began to fiddle with her, gently exploring her damp warmth, until they settled into a soft rhythm of massage against her clit.

He was still kissing her neck, and together the sensations were far too much to bear. It took hardly any time at all before Sansa felt her climax growing, ready to explode. She was sobbing like a madwoman into his chest, grasping his broad shoulders for support as she neared her apex.

"Please," Sansa heard herself begging him. "Please, please..."

"Sing for me, my pretty little bird," Sandor whispered, and his voice sounded far-off and hollow with want.

Then she felt her walls clenching around his fingers, felt her entire body convulse as she came harder than she'd ever done before. She knew her voice was too loud, her grip on him too firm, but she was somewhere else and was not even vaguely in control of her body. She wrenched her eyes shut and saw balls of white-hot light. Her ears rang loudly.

When she finally came down from the high, panting and chewing her lip anxiously, she pulled back from Sandor, feeling thoroughly embarrassed to have finished in such a ridiculous manner in front of him. But then she saw where his other hand was - locked around his softening member, dripping with his creamy seed - and she gulped hard and blushed. His head was tipped backward, and he was staring down at her with tired eyes. He laughed in the back of his throat and growled,

"Gods be damned, little bird... I need some wine."

a/n: I haven't received much feedback on this story, so if you are liking it (or not!) please let me know so I can decide if I want to continue it! Thanks.


	9. Chapter 9

"Away with you, Dog," Joffrey had ordered him, "you're scaring my lady."

Sandor had obeyed, bowing like a slave and skulking off with his tail betwixt his legs as he left Sansa alone with the insane prince who would become the most vicious king ever to reign.

It had pained him then to leave her, just like it pained him now to watch her go from his cabin. She'd put herself to rights and had just shut the door behind her, and now the little wooden room felt hollow and dead.

Sandor pulled his fingers through his stringy, dark hair and gazed out the filthy little window of thick, rippled glass in his cabin. The fog had cleared, and as Sandor watched the horizon bob up and down slowly, his mind drifted back to those days in Winterfell, when he'd chased down the butcher's boy for Joffrey. Mycah. His name had been Mycah.

"He ran. Not very fast," Sandor had told Sansa's father, feeling satisfied with himself. Now, aboard the Lamb, he shut his eyes against the thought, the memory of the young redhead's torso slicing clear open, the way the boy's entrails had spilled forth into the blanket in which Sandor carried his body.

He'd killed for Sansa herself, that time during the riot when he'd pulled the smallfolk savages off of her trembling, frightened form and gutted them. At the time, the killing had felt wonderful - to avenge what they'd done to Sansa had sent a rush of relief through his veins better than any wine. Now, though, he remembered the way Sansa had stared at him in horror. She'd been afraid not only of the rapists, but of Sandor himself.

Killing didn't seem quite as sweet anymore as it had used to do. Why was that? Why were his memories of slaying and butchering marred and altered somehow by the recollection of less savory details?

Sandor's reverie was jarred by the sound of voices outside his cabin, and he instantly recognized one of them as Sansa's. His ears pricked up and he touched his sword where it lay beside him on his bunk, ready always to protect his little bird from whatever predators may lurk about this ship.

"Hello again, m'lady."

"Ronnick. Hello... I was just... Ehh..." Sansa stuttered, trying to find a good explanation for why she was leaving Sandor's cabin alone, disheveled and probably still pink-cheeked. Sandor heard Ronnick chuckle... No. He heard Ronnick laugh at her, at his little bird, and he felt his fists ball at his sides in anger. Sandor rose from the bunk, the loose wooden floorboards creaking in protest beneath his borrowed boots as he did.

"No need to explain yourself, m'lady," Ronnick was chortling. "Your voice carries exceptionally well above decks."

Sansa was silent then, for a brief moment, until she quietly said, "Let me pass, please, Ronnick."

"It sounded good," Ronnick continued, and Sandor headed instantly for the door, cracking his knuckles as he balled his fists ever tighter. "I wonder, Lady Sansa, is it true what they say about hounds and whores?"

Sandor felt his ears ring hot with rage as he flung the cabin door open and glared over Sansa's shoulder at the scrawny sailor who was harassing her. The boy seemed half Sandor's size; he was scarcely larger than Sansa, and yet Sandor wanted nothing more right now than to completely destroy the young sailor. He'd just called his little bird a whore.

"Perhaps you and the rest of the crew ought to learn how to shut your fucking ears," Sandor growled, placing a hand heavily and protectively on Sansa's shoulder. Ronnick smirked, his grey eyes glinting. Sandor sensed a fight, and he was very good at sensing trouble. "Get behind me, little bird," he said instinctively, and Ronnick laughed darkly.

"Yes, little bird," he sneered mockingly. "Get behind the dog, lest you see with your eyes what a real man looks like. One who isn't a hulking mess of melted wax. I could make you squeal, m'lady, much better than this one did."

Sandor pushed Sansa behind him, perhaps a bit too roughly, and lunged at the scrawny little boy. In an instant he had Ronnick flattened beneath him on the floor, and he was delivering crushing blows to the boy's face. He distantly heard Sansa behind him, screaming for Sandor to stop, but he couldn't. Not when he looked down at Ronnick Snow's increasingly destroyed face and replayed the little git's words to and about Sansa. About him - Sandor - being a hulk of melted wax. It was too much. He punched and pounded until there was nothing left to punch, just a bloody pulp of a face, and Ronnick was no longer making any moves at all to fight back.

The ringing in Sandor's ears quieted, and he felt his heartbeat thrumming inside his chest insistently as he registered Sansa sobbing behind him,

"What have you done, Sandor? You've killed him... Oh, you've killed him..."

Sandor looked anxiously to where Sansa stood, her arms wrapped around her stomach in a shaky self-embrace. She very much looked as though she would vomit. Sandor tried to look apologetic, glancing back to where Ronnick lay before him, most certainly dead, but Sandor's face was splattered with blood and he knew he looked like nothing but a killer to Sansa right now.

So focused was he on Sansa that he scarcely realized the men who had barreled into the space outside his cabin. They'd come running down the stairs, down the narrow corridor, and were crammed into the dimly lit area like and eyeing Sandor with suspicion. In the front of the group was Manguss of Maefor, and he was stroking his chestnut beard and sighing.

"Well, my friend," Manguss sighed once he'd managed to make eye contact with Sandor, "you've just made my job infinitely more difficult. That boy you just killed wasn't just any old bastard of the North."

"I don't care who the fuck he was," Sandor retorted. "He spoke with the utmost disrespect to the daughter of Lord Eddard Stark."

"Ronnick Snow was the bastard of Lord Walder Frey," Manguss informed Sandor. "He was conceived and raised at the Smoking Log in Winter Town. He grew up knowing precisely who Lady Sansa Stark was, though she never knew of his existence. Nor would she have cared if she did know. Lord Walder Frey... That would be the man whose daughter is engaged to Lady Sansa's brother Robb, correct? You are trying to maintain favor in the Twins, are you not?"

Sandor said nothing. He gulped heavily and looked apologetically from the bleeding heap of a sailor on the floor to where Sansa stood in his doorway. She stared at him rather blankly, her sapphire eyes coursing over him and silently taking in the way Ronnick's blood had splashed over Sandor as The Hound had beat the smaller man to death. Self-consciously, Sandor reached up to wipe the blood from his face with the sleeve of his rough-hewn grey woolen tunic, feeling the scratch of the fabric on his scars. The uncomfortable silence was broken by the sound of a voice above decks.

"Land ho! Tarth on the horizon!"

In an instant, the sailors were in motion, assuming their stations to land the ship. Sansa stared, silent and wide-eyed and somber, at the scene before her, and then finally met Sandor's eyes. Sandor stood and slowly followed the sailors and Manguss above decks, leaving Ronnick Snow's corpse, and a very bewildered Sansa, behind.

* * *

That first night in Evenfall Hall would be a reminder for Sandor Clegane that the world contained good food, and good wine, and soft beds. That was what he insisted to himself, over and over, as he drank deeply from Lord Selwyn's wine goblets and ate of his meat and potatoes and fish and bread.

He watched across the quiet, nearly empty dining room as Sansa did the same thing. She sat across from him at the large banquet table, with the Evenstar at its head. There was no conversation, for Lord Selwyn had reacted with less-than-welcoming surprise to see The Hound and the daughter of an executed traitor show up upon his shores. The vaulted stone ceilings of the dining room made the silence all the more evident.

"Thank you again, Lord Selwyn, for giving us shelter," Sansa said for the fourth time, drinking a deep draught of Dornish red that was immediately refilled by an attentive servant.

"My Lady, your father and I were friends indeed. I can speak neither to his innocence nor his guilt in matters of treason. It is no secret that I am hardly friendly with King's Landing. But I shall not lie and say your presence here does not unnerve me."

Lord Selwyn leaned upon his folded hands and chewed his food, eyeing Sandor and then Sansa.

"And you, Ser Clegane. Why is it that you left King's Landing with the Lady Stark?"

Sandor shifted uncomfortably in his seat, flicking his eyes momentarily to Sansa and then back to the lord at the head of the table.

"It's no Ser, m'lord. And I left because King's Landing was on fire." He flashed a little sardonic grin, as if to announce that that was the best answer anybody was going to get out of him, and returned to silently scarfing down beef and wine.

"Lady Sansa, your chambers are ready."

The maid who came and curtsied beside Sansa's chair was a scrawny girl of about Sansa's age, with mousy brown hair and a homely face. The contrast in beauty between them just made Sansa seem all the more beautiful to Sandor, and he grunted roughly to himself as he realized he was too drunk to avoid such thoughts, and not yet drunk enough to avoid guilt over them. He drank three more goblets of wine in short order, and waited for Sansa to finish her food before he rose unsteadily from the table and bowed to Lord Selwyn, muttering his thanks.

He thought perhaps it was his own drunkenness giving him the illusion that Sansa was swaying heavily upon her feet as the two of them walked with the maid through the corridors of Evenfall Hall, but he became more convinced that she'd had entirely too much Dornish wine when she unmistakably erred in her steps and ran sidelong into a stone wall. The poor little maid eyed the two of them with nothing but suspicion as she gestured into a large bedchamber.

"Is there anything I might do for you, m'lady?" she asked, and she sounded as though she very much hoped she would be dismissed.

"No. Thank you. Goodnight."

Sansa retreated into the dark room, shutting the door behind her before Sandor even had a chance to bid her a good evening in any way. Surprised, and with the wine hitting him full force, Sandor followed the little maid further down the hall until they reached his assigned bedchamber.

He thanked her and shut the door behind her, noticing with a bitter smile that his own room was much smaller than Sansa's, and much more barren. There was nothing inside except a simple bed with white linens that were admittedly freshly laundered, but the room lacked a wardrobe or even a chair. The window was small and high and would let in very little light in the morning. It felt more like a cell than a bedchamber. No, Sandor thought disdainfully. Lord Selwyn did not want them here.

He collapsed onto the bed, noting with a frown that it was five or six inches too short for him. He curled up a bit, kicking his boots off and hearing them land with a thump upon the stone ground. Sandor groaned into the thin pillow, feeling more drunk than he'd been in a very long time. He absently realized that he'd forgotten to lock his chamber door behind him upon entering, but was far too drunk and far too tired to get up and fix his error.

Instead, Sandor fell deeply asleep, and he had a dream wherein they were back in King's Landing. Sansa was married to King Joffrey, but the king found himself unable to perform his husbandly duties with Sansa. Even in his dream, Sandor thought this made no sense; what sort of a man would have difficulty getting his cock hard if Sansa Stark stripped down for him?

Nonetheless, that was the premise of Sandor's dream, and then Dream King Joffrey commanded Dream Sandor to put a son inside of Dream Sansa on behalf of His Grace. This command led to a night full of imaginations of all sorts of endeavors with Sansa.

In the morning, Sandor woke convinced he was still dreaming. The room was brighter than he would have thought the little window would let it be, and the bed was surprisingly comfortable. Most tellingly, he could smell her - Sansa. He could smell her distinctive aroma... evergreens after a cool rain.

Then Sandor cracked his eyes and saw that she was in bed beside him, sound asleep and cuddled up against his chest, her little hand curled over his naked shoulder. She wore nothing at all, not a scrap of linen, and her hair was mussed, hanging in curling auburn tendrils over her peacefully inert face. Sandor let himself smile a little bit to himself, thinking that perhaps Joffrey's orders hadn't been so terrible after all, and that this was the best dream he remembered having in a very long time.

Than Sandor felt the slam of a post-bender headache, and he realized with a jolt that he was awake. This was no dream.

Sandor sat bolt upright in his bed, and his quick action stirred Sansa beside him just a bit in her sleep. He looked under the thick down blanket and realized he was naked as the day he was born. Suddenly a pit of fear took hold in his stomach. Sansa was naked, and he was naked, and they'd both been horribly drunk the night before.

Reaching for Sansa's sleeping face with trembling fingers, Sandor felt his eyes burning with regret and self-loathing.

"Oh, little bird," he whispered fearfully, "what have I done to you?"

* * *

Thank you all so very much for the incredibly kind and encouraging comments on the previous chapter! Even though I'm visiting my in-laws, I snuck away for an hour to write this chapter. Your comments encouraged me to keep writing quickly. I am so glad to see that even a few people are made happy by reading my story. Thanks again; your support means everything to me as I'm writing.

Sorry to leave this on a bit of a cliffhanger, but I'm very busy and can't write any more tonight. As it is, I had to rush-write this chapter much more hurriedly than I'd have liked.

What do you think? Did Sandor take Sansa's maidenhead in a drunken lapse of judgment? Or did they just fool around a bit? What will Sansa say when she wakes up? Does she remember what happened?

All of these questions and more will be addressed within the next 24 hours with an update! Squeeeeee. Sansan.


	10. Chapter 10

"Sansa." His voice rasped in the still room, his large hand reaching to cup her cheek gently. His throat was like a stone in the desert, parched from his drinking the previous night. "Little bird..."

She stirred, her blue eyes blinking awake and staring into his chest for a moment before he saw the realization cross her face. She did not move, aside from reaching up to cover his hand with hers upon her cheek, and then he saw her pale face deepen red, saw her throat bob with a gulp of fear.

"How did I get here?" she asked, her voice hollow as she stared up into his eyes plaintively. Sandor looked away; he couldn't face her wide sapphire eyes, imploring him for answers when he had none. He shook his head and shrugged helplessly.

"I was very sick with wine," he admitted. "I remember nothing past falling asleep alone in my own bed."

Sansa looked as though she were trying very hard to remember something, and then she murmured, "I think I was walking down the hallway, toward your room. I knocked. Once, twice, three times. You never answered. I opened the door and let myself in."

"Then what happened?" Sandor croaked with trepidation, but Sansa was quiet.

"I do not remember," she conceded, and he heard her voice crack.

He couldn't bear to look at her, couldn't stand to think of them twisting about in the sheets with both of them so drunk they wouldn't remember it the next morning. He could not abide the notion that he'd deflowered her under those circumstances.

Sandor pulled himself from the bed, covering his manhood with his hand as best he could as he rifled about in the pile of clothing on the floor for his linen smallclothes. He pulled them on, ignoring the fact that Sansa stared at him as he did it. Then he found her cream-colored shift and tossed it onto the bed, stalking away toward the high window with his hands upon his hips in frustration. Behind him, he heard Sansa slithering into her shift, felt the heavy silence as she laced herself into the garment.

"Is there blood?" he asked finally, and Sansa's voice came meekly in reply,

"No, Ser. None."

Sandor looked over his shoulder at her, furrowing his thick eyebrows. She had her fingertips at her collarbone, and she was staring at him with slightly parted lips, her eyes looking fearful and devoid of trust.

"Of all the times you've called me 'Ser' in error, little bird, your words cut more deeply now than ever."

"I'm sorry," she said softly, and Sandor felt guilt roil in his stomach, alongside nausea whose origin he could not determine. Was it the wine making him feel as though he would spill his guts into a bucket at any moment, or the thought in his mind of a drunken Sansa losing her purity while he mindlessly rutted her? Acid boiled in Sandor's throat, which he cleared to no avail.

"I shall need you to determine if you still have your maidenhead," Sandor instructed Sansa awkwardly, and she looked confused. Sighing and shutting his eyes, Sandor forced himself to growl, "You must feel inside yourself, and tell me if you are still intact."

"How will I know?" Sansa asked, her words trembling with concern. Sandor cracked his eyes open to see her fingers creeping up beneath the hem of her shift, pushing into her entrance, and again he looked away. They'd done much together over the past week or so, but right now Sandor felt sick at the thought of Sansa's modesty being compromised. With another girl, some random tavern slut, he couldn't have cared less whether he recalled the encounter or not. With Sansa, though, with his little bird, the idea of ravishing her and not remembering... Of perhaps having hurt her or not touched her and whispered to her the way he ought to have done, made him want to retch.

"Feel for your... your barrier, little bird," Sandor instructed, staring at the wall. His own words made him wince, as he realized what he was doing and that he was calling her by his pet name for her. He shouldn't do that right now, he thought. He should bend the knee to his lady.

"I don't know!" Sansa exclaimed anxiously. "Perhaps... I... I'm not sure how to tell if I am yet a maid, My Lord. My fingers don't know the difference. I'm very sorry."

She began to cry then, and Sandor found himself rushing to her side. He genuflected beside the bed, and Sansa buried her face into his shoulder. She heaved with sobs, her back shaking as she cried and cried.

"It's all right, little bird," Sandor promised, rubbing his hand between her shoulder blades. "I don't know what happened, but I'm very sorry for anything I have done to you. You... you deserve much better than me for your first time lying with a man. Or any time thereafter."

Sansa shook her head no against his tunic, and he thought that rather endearing of her to do, but still he sighed with disgust. He was nothing but a rotten old fool, he told himself. It was just as Ronnick Snow had said. He was nothing but melted wax.

"I can tell you, Sansa," he said cautiously, taking her hand in hers. "If you allow me to feel you there, I will be able to tell you what happened."

She wordlessly guided his hand between her thighs, under the hem of her shift, and he watched as she suppressed arousal upon feeling his fingers upon her ladies' parts. He did the same, stifling the little moan that wanted to work its way forth when he felt moisture blossom upon her the instant his fingers made contact with her folds. This was no time for play.

Sandor pushed his first two fingers into her, as gently as he could manage, trying hard not to rub her nub with his thumb in doing so. Still, Sansa sighed heavily against his shoulder. She couldn't help herself, he knew, being so unaccustomed to a man touching her this way, and Sandor found himself rising in his breeches, much against his own will.

Then he felt his heart jolt when his fingers pushed up against her hymen, finding the barrier to be present and intact. He could feel her stretching around his fingers, and she shifted uncomfortably at the depth with which he'd thrust his fingers into her. But there was no doubt. She, at least, was sinless.

"You are a maid yet," he assured her, planting a soft kiss upon her forehead as he pulled his moist fingers from her entrance. "I have no idea what transpired last night, my lady, but it wasn't... It was not that."

Sansa cried harder than ever into his shoulder, seeming more upset now than she'd been before, and Sandor furrowed his brow, confused by her reaction. He held her tightly against his chest and shushed her gently, rocking back and forth a bit against the bed as she quivered with cries.

"It's all right, little bird. I didn't... We did not..."

Sansa finally looked up at him and choked on her words as she cried, her lovely eyes red with sadness. "I am not sure why I am throwing such a fit," she admitted, embarrassed. "It's as though some small part of me wanted..."

She was interrupted by the sound of Sandor's bedchamber door being thrown open, and they both turned to face the doorway, startled. Sandor felt a shock of fear as he realized that whoever was in the doorway would see him with no shirt and Sansa in his bed in just a shift. That turned out to be the least of his concern as he realized there were armed men in the doorway, their swords out.

"Sandor Clegane and Lady Sansa Stark, you are under arrest for high treason. Lord Tarth commands you be held in the dungeons of Evenfall Hall until the arrival of the guard to return to you King's Landing."

A/N: sorry this is brief. We've got a wedding to attend today, so I can barely write today. Feedback is food. Love to all!


	11. Chapter 11

Sandor could abide the darkness, the stale air, even the sense of being confined. But the dripping... The steady drop, drop, drop of water through the ceiling of the dungeon as rain poured overhead for three days and two nights... Sandor thought he was going to lose his mind.

There were two cells in the dungeons of Evenfall Hall, each measuring perhaps five feet by eight feet, and they faced one another across a little dark stone corridor. In the feeble light of the single torch on the wall, Sandor could just barely make out Sansa's face as she huddled in her own cell, wrapping her arms around herself.

"Are you cold?" Sandor asked, seeing the way she was clutching at her own torso and staring ahead with dead eyes. Sansa silently shook her head, still not looking at him.

"Hungry," she corrected him, for indeed over the past three days in the dungeons, Sansa and Sandor had been granted very sparse rations. Their only food had been stale bread, their only drink water.

Sandor's head was pounding for want of wine, his hands shaking rather violently after three days with nothing to drink. He felt nauseated, and was tired and anxious at the same time. He felt miserable physically, and he knew that in a fight he'd be worthless at the moment. Knowing now, for the first time in years, how much he needed wine to get by from day to day, made Sandor more anxious than ever. Was he so weak a man that he could not even sit still for a few days without being drunk?

The latest swell of nausea peaked in Sandor's gut and mind, and he reached for his chamber pot and heaved into it. His stomach contracted tightly as he retched, aching with hunger and producing nothing but bile. Sandor wiped sweat from his brow with trembling fingers and took a shaking breath beside his chamber pot, lying sideways upon the hard floor of the dungeons and resting his head upon the flat stones beneath him.

"Have you got a fever?" Sansa asked softly. The day before, she'd realized that Sandor's worsening illness was the result of withdrawal and not infection, and she'd been surprisingly distant since then.

Sandor didn't answer her. He had no bloody idea whether or not he had a fever, but he did know that if he didn't have wine soon, he would die. Of that he was thoroughly convinced. He shut his eyes and tuned out the dungeons for some amount of time... Minutes? Hours? Days?

"Sandor?" Sansa's voice sounded different now, far-off and dreamy, and Sandor wondered if he was hearing her in his sleep. He didn't answer her, instead keeping his eyes shut, and then he heard her gentle humming. It was a song Sandor knew well from his youth, a lullaby.

Sleep, my darling - though winds will be blowing

In my arms, in my heart, there is nothing to fear.

In my arms, to your sleep, to your dreams swiftly going

In my arms, may your visions dance true through the night.

Sleep, my darling - though rain may be falling

In my arms, in my heart, there is nothing to fear.

In my arms, to your sleep, to the distant shore calling

In my arms, may your mind rest until morning's light.

Sleep, my darling - soon, sun will be shining

In my arms, in my heart, there is nothing to fear.

In my arms, to your sleep, walk the path slow and winding

In my arms, may your dreams show the good and the right.

The humming stopped then, and there was only the reverberating sound of drip, drip, drip as the rain leaked in through the stone ceiling.

"Little bird," Sandor murmured, his good cheek numb against the cold floor.

"Hm...?" she sounded distant and tired, and Sandor forced his face up to look at her.

"Somehow, I will get you home," he promised her, and Sansa smiled sadly. She hugged her arms ever more tightly around her body, her thin little fingers gripping the fabric near her ribs.

"Do you suppose it hurts?" she asked after a long silence.

"Does what hurt?"

He watched through two sets of iron bars as a lone tear tumbled from her blue eye, betraying the emotion she was fighting to hide. "When Ser Ilyn Payne cuts off our heads. Do you suppose it shall hurt very badly?"

Sandor wanted to embrace her then, wanted to assure her that her father had felt no pain when they'd chopped off his head, and nor would she, but instead he growled,

"There's no one that will be killing you, girl. Not on my watch."

It didn't sound as affectionate as he'd intended. His voice was scratchy from thirst and hunger, gruff from weariness and nausea, and short from the lack of wine. Frustrated with the sound of his own words, Sandor rolled away from Sansa, toward the wall of his cell, and ignored the sound of her soft crying behind him.

Sandor knew they'd be wanted after fleeing King's Landing, but he had not anticipated a thousand-dragon prize on their heads. He'd also been informed that his own brother, Gregor, had been sent to collect him, and Sandor was not exactly looking forward to that reunion.

More than anything, though, he wanted wine.

Two days later, Sandor lay shaking on the floor of his cell, staring at the ceiling and unable to sit up. He'd been hallucinating so badly over the past twelve hours or so that he had no idea if it was day or night, winter or summer. He didn't know where he was, and when Sansa called to him through the cells, Sandor thought it was an actual bird chirping at him, and he laughed aloud at the sound.

Finally, she must have told them he'd die without wine, and they wouldn't get their prize, because then he tasted the bitter tang of a cheap red touching his lips. He drank, blindly, his eyes wrenched shut against the violent shaking in his limbs.

"Sleep, my darling - soon, sun will be shining... In my arms, in my heart, there is nothing to fear..."

She was singing to him. In Sandor's sick hallucinations, he heard Sansa singing, and he smiled broadly as he drank from the cup at his lips. He was even convinced he could feel her hand upon his ruined cheek, her little fingertips coursing over the rivulets of burned flesh there.

He reached up and covered her hand with his, squeezing gently, thinking that the combination of wine and Sansa made for a wonderful dream indeed. Even the skin of her hand felt divine, warm and soft, and Sandor was grateful for such a marvelous dream after days of agony.

"Open your eyes," she was whispering, and Sandor did. He saw her angelic pale face staring down into his monstrous one, her eyes filled with affection as she petted his cheek and shushed him softly.

"Little bird," he croaked, "you are a sight for these eyes."

She leaned down to kiss him, to plant her lips gently upon his, and he felt tingling course through his veins at the sensation.

"Are you all right?" she asked him, lying down to put her face sideways upon his chest.

"I am now," he promised her, kissing the top of her head and ensnaring his fingers in her auburn locks. "When must I wake up?"

Sansa giggled a little, and then Sandor felt her hot tears wet against his bare chest.

"Well?" he asked, coursing his fingertips down the back of her neck and feeling her shiver at the sensation.

"You are awake." Sansa picked her head up off of Sandor's chest and glared at s with worry in her blue eyes.

"Eh?" Sandor glanced around, realizing that they were still in the dungeon, and that Sansa had been moved into his minuscule cell, and there was a half-empty jug of wine and a tipped-over wooden cup beside her kneeling form.

"You... needed wine, I suppose. You were calling for it. 'Wine! I need to drink some wine.' You kept repeating it. The guards laughed and ignored you until I screamed at them that you looked like you were dying. You did, you know. You looked awful. Shaking and speaking nonsense."

Sandor felt abruptly humiliated. The thought of The Hound himself, brought down by a lack of wine, made him feel embarrassed and small in a way nothing had quite done before. He gulped heavily.

"You retched while you were lying on your back," Sansa continued, looking afraid as she relived the memory. "And you were choking... I called to you and you didn't answer. You were dying right in front of me, and I screamed and screamed until they finally came and turned you on your side. I implored them to give you some wine. They said they were too afraid to go near you, that you'd wake and strangle the cupbearer. But I said, 'Please, let me help him.' So they did. They let me in last night."

Sandor chewed on his lip and forced himself to sit up, ignoring the throbbing above his eyes and at the back of his skull. He was cold, shivering in the damp dungeon air, and as he looked at Sansa in her shift, he knew she must be cold, too. He felt awful that she'd needed to come and save him like she'd done, but a twinge of gratefulness was there, too.

He was suddenly aware of just how small the cell was, for he and Sansa barely fit into it at the same time. She was close to him, so close he could smell her evergreens-after-the-rain aroma and could feel warmth radiating from her.

"I've missed you," Sansa told him with a meek smile, sweeping a tendril of black hair from his eyes. She was silent a long moment, and then she whispered, "Sandor... If I am to be executed by the King's Justice, I do not wish to die without having known you."

Sandor shut his eyes heavily, feeling a sick pain in his stomach at the thought of Sansa being executed for treason.

"No one is going to hurt you, little bird," he promised her again, "and I will not sully you on the floor of a dungeon cell."

"Then you would have Ser Ilyn Payne chop off my head with me having never known what it is to lie with a man?" Sansa asked, sounding broken at last.

"No one," Sandor growled, "is going to chop off your head."

"You don't know that," Sansa whispered, her eyes suddenly glowing with anger in the dim light of the single torch. "If Ser Ilyn Payne had come here yesterday to take me away and put my head on a spike, you wouldn't have known one way or the other."

Sandor sighed heavily and shut his eyes, wishing he could set reason aside and just lie his little bird on her back and ravish her. It would feel very good to do so after days of trembling and vomiting. As Sandor contemplated the possibility of taking the girl right then and there, he felt her soft lips touch his rough, bearded neck. "Sansa, please..."

"Please what?" Her voice was muffled as her kisses trailed lower, over Sandor's bare chest and down his hard stomach. She started to kiss him through the thin material of his breeches, and Sandor felt himself harden almost instantly when her little mouth made mewling sounds against him, her breath hot through the woolen breeches and wondrous upon his cock.

"Please... Don't let me do this," Sandor begged, for his head was spinning from the wine and her movements, and he felt all semblance of self-control leaving his doomed body. It wasn't just Sansa who would be up for execution. No. They'd probably draw and quarter their disloyal dog, and some wicked part of Sandor thought he was owed the carnal knowledge of Sansa Stark before they were both sent to their deaths.

For, as much as he wanted to save them both, he had no armor, no sword, no Stranger, nothing. He didn't even have himself, for he felt a bit broken after the experience of going without wine.

"Don't let me do this, little bird," he growled again, trying feebly to wrench Sansa from his lap. "Don't let me ruin you."

But Sansa untied his breeches rather determinedly, looking steely-eyed as she did it, and as she pulled Sandor's stiff cock out and began to pump her hand upon it, she stared up at him with her bright blue eyes.

"Sandor Clegane," she said formally, "I want to be ruined by you."

And with that, the last shred of Sandor's self-control fled from him.

A/N: thank you so much for the readership and incredibly helpful feedback. Update will be coming shortly!


	12. Chapter 12

"Lie down beside me, little bird," Sandor rasped, and he guided Sansa as gently as he could onto the hard floor.

Before Sansa knew what was happening, they were face-to-face on their sides, and her cheek was pressed against the cold stones. She shivered a bit, from the chill and from her nerves, as she realized that Sandor had finally agreed to lie with her.

She stared at him, studying him closely in the dim light. Far away, probably upstairs to avoid the damp cold, she could hear the men at arms engaging in a lively drinking song, and she knew they were alone for the time being.

Sansa's bottom lip trembled with anticipation as she looked into The Hound's grey eyes. He stared back, flicking up a corner of his lips reassuringly.

"We don't have to do anything," he said, and he reached with a large hand to push a stray tendril of auburn hair from Sansa's wide eyes. "We can just lie here a while."

She examined him wordlessly, taking in the deep lines of worry that coursed over the good parts of his face, the way his right eye drooped in a pocket of burned flesh, the way his hair hung limply over the ruined half of him. To a woman who cared for him less, a paid woman, Sandor's appearance would undoubtedly trigger horror rather than attraction. But lying here with The Hound, on the cold and dank floor of a dungeon, Sansa thought him the most handsome man in the Seven Kingdoms. She thought perhaps she ought to tell him this, so she reached to stroked his burned cheek and murmured,

"Do you remember the night you took me back to the Red Keep? After the Tourney."

Sandor nodded against the stone floor, against her hand, and laughed gruffly, "That would be the night I threatened to kill you if you told anybody my secrets."

Sansa smiled weakly back at him, ignoring the way the stones beneath her head were ridiculously hard and cold. "So you did," she affirmed, "but you also were wearing a red tunic. With a leather dog. Remember?"

Sandor nodded again. "I remember every bloody night I've seen your face, little bird, except for that damnable one here."

She knew he was trying to be funny because he was nervous, so she smiled again at him. "I thought that tunic looked very fine on you indeed." She watched as his face flushed deep red with embarrassment, for Sandor Clegane was not often associated with notable attire aside from his hound's helm. "But now I realize, it wasn't the tunic. It was the man wearing it." Sandor's face was serious as he looked back into Sansa's eyes, his breathing catching a bit in his throat as she dusted her little fingertips along the rivers of hardened tissue where once there had been an eyebrow. "I want you," she whispered.

"You'd be taken for the first time here, upon these cursed stones, by a cursed man who craves nothing more than killing and wine?" Sandor asked with a hint of bitter disbelief.

Sansa felt the sting of his words, almost accusatory in their sharpness, and she muttered, "I would be taken by you. Here, or anywhere. It must be you."

"I hope you know what you're asking me to do to you," Sandor said, chewing hard upon his bottom lip with trembling teeth. "It will hurt, a little. There's no helping that."

Sansa nodded, for her septa and her mother had both told her that one day she would lie with a man (though they had always been sure to specify that it would be a husband), and that he would put his manhood inside Sansa and move it about until he reached his pleasure. They had warned her that her first time (her wedding night, they always said) would be extremely uncomfortable, but that the nights thereafter would be bearable, or even enjoyable.

Sansa remembered such a conversation with her mother and sister, neither of whom she had seen in so very long, and realized with a pang of sadness that that conversation had ended with Arya storming from the room in disgust and declaring that she would never wed, and with Catelyn Stark burying her head in her hands with frustration crossing her pale Tully face.

"You're somewhere else, little bird," Sandor noted, and Sansa realized with a start that he was stroking her knuckles with his rough fingertips. He brought her fingers to his lips and kissed them very gently, asking, "Where are you?"

"I'm home," Sansa told him, and he did not seem to require further explanation. He just nodded and moved to align his lips with Sansa's so that he could kiss her. Sansa let her eyes flutter shut and felt his mouth touch hers, so softly that she barely registered the touch of his lips on hers. She let out a little choked sigh, urging him to kiss her more firmly, and he obeyed. His lips pressed more insistently against hers, and his rough tongue slid into her mouth expertly. Sansa coursed the tip of her tongue over the roof of Sandor's mouth, then suckled gently upon his bottom lip, eliciting a low groan from somewhere deep inside his bare chest. She felt his huge hand cup her cheek, the calloused skin of his palm scratching at her smooth face as he clutched at her desperately.

"I've wanted you since first I saw you," he panted, pulling his face away from hers as he gasped for air. "I told Ilyn Payne that you would be mine. I told him because he hasn't got a tongue, and he couldn't tell anybody my ridiculous claim, my foolish dream. 'Someday I will have that Sansa Stark for myself,' I said to him, after three cups too many of wine. It was the day after I had to kill the butcher's boy, and then they killed your direwolf, and after that you were different. You grew up overnight. You weren't a little girl anymore. And so I said to Ilyn Payne, 'She's a woman now, and she needs a man to teach her. Not that little cunt Joffrey.' Ser Ilyn Payne laughed at me for what I was saying, even though it was treason. I didn't care what the fuck he thought. I wanted you."

Sandor paused to kiss Sansa again, just as passionately as before, and he continued as Sansa's head spun from the kiss, "Then day after day they made me watch as they treated you like shit in King's Landing. Every time I got drunk enough, I told myself that someday I would take you home, and maybe if you were grateful enough, that you'd kiss my cheek as I handed you over to your mother. I told myself I'd kill a thousand men to have a single kiss from you, and then after that I would lie down and die happy."

Sansa felt her eyes sear as Sandor's words moved her to tears. She wrenched her eyes shut and struggled not to make a sound as a hot tear tumbled from her eye.

"And so, if they chop my head off after I've lain with you, well... I won't care. They can have my head. I shall die with memories of you dancing in my mind, and there'll be a smile on this hideous mess of a face as Ilyn Payne swings his fucking sword."

"Please," Sansa begged. "Please don't speak of it anymore... Just... just kiss me."

He did, and Sansa sobbed into his mouth, abruptly afraid of the specter of death she was sure was coming for both of them. Sandor pulled away and shushed her gently.

"Be quiet now, little bird... They'll hear you. Turn around and face away from me."

Confused, Sansa furrowed her brow. "I thought the woman lays upon her back with the man mounting her."

"There are many ways a man can enter his lady," Sandor said awkwardly. "This way won't hurt you as badly. And it's more hidden." He shifted upon the cold stones and ran his fingers down the length of Sansa's arm. She shivered in response, for his touch was like the gentle whisper of a breeze.

She was surprised that a man so rough-hewn as Sandor Clegane could touch a woman with such tenderness in his hands, and she was suddenly less afraid of the pain that would come with losing her maidenhead. She did as he said and turned away from him, lying on her side facing the wall. Then, slowly and quietly, Sandor rearranged them slightly so that he was tucked behind her. His shirtless, hulking form pressed firmly against Sansa's body, and she felt the heat of him radiate through her thin shift, warming her and giving her a great sense of comfort.

He reached around her and slithered his hand beneath the neckline of her linen shift. He planted a soft kiss behind Sansa's ear and touched her breast, prompting Sansa to suck in breath sharply. Sandor's hand stilled in response to Sansa's gasp, and she felt his body tense behind her. She covered her hand with his and urged him to continue touching her breast. Sandor's hand was so huge, and Sansa's chest so modest, that he cupped her fully in his palm. He squeezed carefully at her chest, running his calloused thumb back and forth over the hardened nub of her nipple.

Sansa shut her eyes, seeing his face in her mind, and sighed happily at his touch. She felt pressure building between her thighs, an insistent but faint throbbing that was swelling like the rising tide on a storm-tossed sea. She knew Sandor liked the feel of her, too, for his length hardened against her and pressed firmly into the backs of her thighs. He rubbed himself against her a bit there, with only a few layers of thin fabric separating them.

"Fucking hells," Sandor whispered, his voice rickety with desire. "I could bury myself in you to the hilt and be done in thirty seconds. But that's not what either of us wants."

Sansa shook her head in agreement, feeling the grit of the stones against her cheek.

"What do you want, Sansa?" Sandor asked, his voice still shaking. He was whispering against her neck, and her skin prickled at the feel of his breath there. "Tell me, little bird. Tell me exactly what you want, and I will do it."

Sansa shut her eyes more tightly and contemplated her answer. He was grinding harder against her now, his cock pushed tightly between them as he reveled in the friction of its movement against Sansa. "I want you," she replied to him. "All of you."

"What do you want me to do you?" Sandor's voice was hollow now, and Sansa thought he sounded as though he'd quite lost control. His fingers had stopped moving on her chest and now his hand was just groping at her, drifting about her chest in a lost and confused manner. Sansa was soaking wet between her legs, and the throbbing there needed attention sooner rather than later. Still she was nervous, about the pain and about every other practical concern that a girl had when she lost her innocence to a man. But he wanted to know what she wanted, and so Sansa responded,

"I want you to enter me... to be inside me as no man has ever done. I want you to get your pleasure from my body. I want to give you your release. Take me, Sandor... Now. Please. Do it."

She was a bit impatient, mostly because of how nervous she was, and she hiked up the skirt of her shift so that Sandor could access her lady's bits.

Sandor grunted his approval behind her, and he pulled one of her knees up slightly and parted her thighs so that he would have a better angle to enter her. She felt him reach between them to untie his breeches and pull himself free. She felt something hard and alarmingly large at her sodden entrance then, and she knew it was his cock. The very thought made her all the more aroused, and she could no more control the little moan that ripped forth from her lips than she could control the way moisture leaked from her. The stimulation was too much. She needed him. Now.

"Please," she begged again, her voice sounding desperate and strained even to her own ears.

"Know one thing, little bird. I teased you relentlessly from the day that we met because I didn't know how to tell you... I've loved you since the first time I laid eyes upon you."

Sandor put his quivering hand upon Sansa's hip to steady them both, and he planted one final soft kiss upon her neck as he pushed in gently.

"Fucking hells," he whispered again, his breath coming heavy and quick.

Sansa, for her part, felt pain rip through her core as his enormous member stretched her virgin entrance. He pushed in so slowly, so deliberately, that the pain was unbearable, though Sansa knew he was trying to be gentle. She thrust her hips back against him so he'd enter her all at once, and Sandor grunted loudly in surprise as his cock broke through Sansa's barrier of chastity and sank deeply into her body.

"Ungh," he moaned behind her, kissing her ear and panting.

Sansa only half paid attention as he began to thrust very gently. She was distracted by the pain, by the thought that she was officially no longer a maid, but belonged wholly and completely to Sandor Clegane. She became more aware of his movements as his hot breath grew quick and ragged on her neck. The way he stretched her entrance began to feel intensely pleasurable as Sansa focused on his slow, tender rhythm and the way he rocked them gently back and forth with each thrust.

Then some corner of her mind registered the fact that he'd said he loved her before he'd entered her, and Sansa felt a jolt of pleasure as her heart fluttered. Sandor Clegane loved her. He said so. He always had.

She felt the corners of her lips turn up into a happy smile, and she reached for one of his hands at her chest. She pulled his knuckles up and kissed them the way he always did to her, and she listened as he groaned deeply with each fluid thrust.

Then, from behind him, she heard,

"Fucking seven hells and all the rats therein. Look at this. It's my charred little brother and his traitor slut."

Shocked and horrified, Sansa shrieked as she felt Sandor yank himself from her body. She sat up quickly and whirled around, facing the iron bars of the cell. Beside her, Sandor's member, slick with her fluids, was on display as the two prisoners looked up - far up - into the smirking face of Gregor Clegane.

A/N: Oh, no! Cock block for Sandor! And Gregor's come to haul them off to King's Landing! But at least Sansa got a small taste of The Hound, amirite? LOL.

Anyway, I would really, REALLY appreciate some feedback on this chapter... I wasn't sure about it after I wrote it, but I think it'll do. Next update will be tomorrow around noon. Thank you so much for your readership and reviews!


	13. Chapter 13

"Come to finish what you started all those years ago, Brother?" Sandor chuckled darkly as he tucked himself into his breeches and laced them up lazily. Beside him, Sansa was crying as she covered herself the best she could with her shift.

He knew she was humiliated and disappointed that Gregor had interrupted their coupling, but more than anything else, she was terrified. Here stood the Mountain, clad in the thickest and heaviest armor ever smithed, his sword bared. And Sandor, her only protector, was naked except for his breeches, with not a scrap of armor nor a solitary weapon to defend them.

"She looked good. She looked new. Think I'd like a taste of her," Gregor said menacingly from where he towered above them, and at his words Sandor flew to his feet, bracing himself in front of the iron bars while Sansa sat cowering behind him.

"She is not yours to rape," Sandor informed his brother matter-of-factly, his voice a low growl as he felt his fists ball at his sides.

Gregor laughed and tapped the tip of his sword upon the iron bars. "She's yours," Gregor agreed, "and that means I must destroy her. And I will. You think the dog stretched your little cunny, girl? You'll know pain once I've fucked the life out of you. They want you alive. You can be a bloody, wretched mess for all His Grace cares when you arrive in King's Landing. Don't worry. There'll be more men there who will want a go at you before they chop off that lovely little red head."

Gregor roared with laughter again. Sandor snarled, positioning himself in front of the terrified, sobbing Sansa.

"It won't be you or anybody else, Gregor, who will take her from me. You'll have to kill me to get to her, and then you'll all be many dragons the poorer."

Gregor smirked. "His Grace the King is far more interested in Sansa Stark than he is in you," he assured his little brother. Gregor reached for the solitary torch on the wall, pulling it from its iron brace and waving it slowly in front of the bars. "I'd bet King Joffrey would pay me just plenty for a hound who's completely burned and a she-wolf with a decimated cunt. How'd you like to be on fire again, little brother? You can sit there and burn and watch while I fuck your little friend."

Sandor recoiled from the torch, gulping heavily as he watched the way the flames danced and flickered as Gregor teased the iron bars with them. The orange glow of the fire seemed like the glow of the hells themselves, and the singed wood of the torch reminded Sandor of his own face. He was suddenly taken back to that night with the brazier, when Gregor had shoved him into the fire and held him down. Even now, Sandor could feel his flesh melting from his skull, could hear his own plaintive little screams as his face disappeared into the coals.

But then he thought of Sansa, huddled in fear behind him, and he was somehow filled with a swelling need to kill his brother. The fire was nothing. It was a trick, a distraction. Sandor would use it to his advantage. He backed into the cell a step, letting his fear show upon his face as his heart thumped within his bare chest.

He knew Gregor could kill him now, in an instant, by shoving his sword through the bars. There was really nowhere for Sandor to go, for the cell was so small. He felt Sansa's little form behind him as he stepped backward, and he heard her mewling little sobs as she realized she was probably about to be savagely raped and beaten by The Mountain.

Just like Elia Martell. Just like so many innocent women and girls along the way, who had known Gregor Clegane as the man who grunted and rutted above them as he laughed. They'd known Gregor Clegane as the last face they ever saw, his smirk filled with hatred as he took their honor along with their lives.

Sandor would not have that for Sansa. If he could have his way, he would bring back every girl ever terrorized by Gregor and let them watch as the Hound slayed the Mountain.

He watched as Gregor thrust a heavy skeleton key into the lock outside the cell, hearing the mechanism clank loudly as it unlocked. Gregor threw the cell door open, raising his sword ominously and waving the flames again at Sandor.

Fighting the fearful nausea that swept through his veins at the nearness of the fire, Sandor lunged immediately, grabbing at the blade of Gregor's sword with his left hand and feeling it slice into his palm. Blood immediately leaked profusely down his bare arm, but Sandor felt nothing there. There was no pain, only the thrill of knowing that his brother would soon succumb to one of his earliest victims.

Sandor wrenched as hard as he could and heard Gregor grunt with surprise as the sword flew from both of their hands and clattered to the stone floor. It rattled for a moment, and then Sandor felt the handle being put into his sword hand. He glanced down quickly as he dodged a blow from Gregor, and saw Sansa's wide blue eyes staring at the Mountain as she put his sword into the hand of the Hound.

Sandor looked back at his brother, who was making an effort to get his sword back. As Gregor moved, Sandor saw his neck beckoning, for the Mountain wore no helm. That had been a foolish mistake, Sandor thought, to take off his helmet. But, then, Gregor had never been very smart.

These were the thoughts crossing through Sandor's mind as all the sounds around him seemed to quiet - Sansa's terrified yelps, Gregor's roar, the crackle of the fire on the torch. All he could hear was his own heart pounding in his ears as he thrust the sword straight at Gregor's jugular.

The Mountain's neck opened wide, and blood sprayed forth immediately. Sandor yanked the sword from his brother's neck and watched as the Mountain fell hard onto his knees on the threshold, his thick and heavy armor clanking loudly upon the stones. Gregor let out a final roar as he collapsed, and Sandor met his brother's grey eyes, the same color as his own. He watched with some measure of relief as Gregor's blood finished gurgling from his throat, and then the wicked glint in the elder grey eyes faded until Sandor knew there was no life at all left within them.

"Come on, little bird," he muttered, returning himself to the dungeon of Evenfall Hall. He grabbed Sansa's hand and yanked her across the threshold, climbing over the still-smoldering torch and his brother's silent, unmoving corpse.

Sandor gripped the Mountain's huge sword, using his cut and bleeding hand to guide Sansa as they sprinted from the away from the dungeon cell.

A/N: oh, no! How will they get off of Tarth? Thanks so much for ongoing and helpful feedback!


	14. Chapter 14

Lord Varys walked briskly down the corridor that led to the chamber where King Joffrey was waiting for him. Varys was a confident man, under general circumstances, for he had long succeeded in wielding enough control over the matters of the realm that he had made himself complacent. It very rarely occurred to Lord Varys that of all the heads Joffrey reveled in removing from their owners, the eunuch's might one day be among them.

He was dreading this meeting with the boy king, more ferociously than he'd dreaded any singular occasion in all his troubled days. Varys paused outside the wooden door that led to the king's solar, and met the dull gaze of Ser Meryn Trant.

Ser Meryn, Varys knew, was a loyal subject of the king's mother. Cersei had few men as loyal to her as Ser Meryn Trant, and the knight guarded King Joffrey as carefully as would his mother if she had armor and a sword.

Because of the strong association between the rulers of the realm and the knight outside their door, Varys felt his stomach roil with anxiety. The news he'd come to bear did not consist of a single notion that could be sanely presented to King Joffrey, or to Queen Cersei.

And, yet, as Ser Meryn threw open the heavy wooden door and gestured for Varys to pass, he saw them both, king and mother, standing around a little table in the center of the room, and he cleared his throat rather determinedly.

"Your Graces," he said carefully, bowing a bit more deeply and obsequiously than he was accustomed to doing, "I have news from Tarth. One of my birds has just returned to the roost, and I'm afraid the information is not likely to please Your Graces. Not at all."

He watched as Joffrey glanced worriedly at his mother, looking for her reaction and waiting for her to speak. Cersei pursed her lips and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Well? Out with it, Lord Varys," she commanded, and Varys nodded, bowing again.

"Your Graces, I am displeased to inform you that upon Ser Gregor Clegane's attempt to remove his brother and Sansa Stark from the dungeons of Evenfall Hall, he was murdered. Sandor Clegane and Sansa escaped the island... it is believed they went by boat. A little rowing skiff was discovered missing an hour after Ser Gregor was found dead, but though ships headed out immediately in search of them, no trace has been found."

Varys swallowed heavily, watching as Cersei's face steeled in her anger. She breathed deeply a few times and flicked her eyes to Joffrey, who was raging beside her.

"That rogue dog has killed my Mountain?" Joffrey exclaimed. "I told you that I wanted them here, alive, so that I could kill them properly. I want that traitor bitch and her Hound brought to me. I will rip their hearts from their chests with my own hands."

As he spoke, his voice had become dangerously soft, and he pointed a finger squarely at Varys' chest.

"I want them here within the week," Joffrey commanded, his voice nearly a whisper, "Or I shall start putting heads on spikes - the heads of those who have blundered and failed in bringing my enemies to justice. You wouldn't want your head on a spike, would you Lord Varys?"

The boy king was properly whispering now, and so Lord Varys muttered almost as softly, with an obedient bow,

"Of course not, Your Grace."

Although she knew the little stretch of sea between Tarth and Storm's End was narrow, it unnerved Sansa greatly when their little rowboat lost sight of Evenfall Hall and had not yet gained Storm's End on the horizon. Then she could see nothing at all except the gray waves and the gray clouds, and a lone albatross soaring overhead.

At that point, Sandor needed a bit of a break from rowing. He'd been pumping the oars with all his might away from Tarth, but now he released them and shook out his muscular arms, arching his back until it cracked loudly.

"Would you like me to row for a bit?" Sansa asked timidly, feeling quite queasy from the swells. Their little wooden boat rolled gently upon the sea, and she stared over the side of the skiff at the grey water, alarmed at its nearness.

Sandor scoffed haughtily at her. He had been so out of breath since they frantically left Evenfall Hall that he'd not spoken a word. He'd been rowing with all his strength, and now they were adrift in the middle of the sea with nothing but a few skins of wine, a stolen loaf of bread, and a single cloak that Sandor had snatched off a chair in the kitchens. The boat bobbed up and down on the waves as Sandor rested his body, and Sansa noted with a bit of alarm that the sun seemed close to setting, for the gray sky was slowly darkening around them.

"I can row," she insisted indignantly. "I should like to keep moving."

"You'll hurt yourself," Sandor countered, rubbing his palms together to get circulation back into them. Sansa scowled but knew he was right; the rolling ocean was not an easy place for a tiny skiff like theirs. She clutched the stolen cloak tightly around her body, noting that it smelled of a woman's perfume despite being a man's cloak. Likely whoever had worn it had engaged in the same sort of activities that Gregor Clegane had interrupted upon his arrival in the dungeons.

"I liked it, you know," Sansa murmured absently, staring at the dark water. She lowered her fingers into it, feeling its chill on her skin, and she skimmed her nails along the surface of the gently rolling sea. Sandor didn't answer, so she raised her eyes to him and clarified, "The way it felt when you were inside of me. I wish you had been able to finish. I'm sorry for what happened."

Sandor frowned deeply. "What happened in that dungeon should never have come to pass. That's no way for a young lady to lose her purity - on a stone floor, with a broken man, interrupted by a killer." He shook his head as if he couldn't believe it all for himself, and he looked quite disappointed indeed.

"Did you mean it?" Sansa asked quietly, and she hoped he knew what she meant. She hoped he wouldn't make her specify that she wanted to know if he loved her like he'd said he did.

"Of course I did," Sandor replied gruffly. He reached for one of the skins of sour red wine on the floor of the boat and uncorked it, squeezing the skin into his mouth and swallowing deeply. Sansa watched as his throat bobbed with each gulp. There was something about the way he moved - heavy motions, yet oddly graceful - that lit a pressure somewhere beneath her stomach.

"Oh." She was glad to hear that his words had been true. He'd said he'd loved her from the first time he'd seen her, but what did Sansa say in reply to such a declaration? She thought hard about what her septa would have taught her about such things, and her mind came up blank. "I can't say I loved you from the first time I saw you," she admitted, "for I was very, very afraid of you."

"And now?" Sandor asked, returning the cork to the wine skin. "Are you still afraid of me?"

She shook her head no. "I feel safe with you, even if that's a foolish thing to do. And I can't help my mind or my body and how they respond to you... Or my heart; that's even worse. My heart tells me that I love you, very much."

Sandor gulped heavily, and now it was his turn to stare at the dark water that looked thicker than oil in its smooth, opaque swells. "It's a damn fool who loves a dog," he told her harshly. "A dog is loyal. A dog will protect you. That's all true enough. But do you know what else is true about dogs, little bird?"

Sansa shook her head silently. Sandor reached for the oars and resumed rowing northwest, toward Storm's End. He gazed at Sansa's face, and in Sandor's grey eyes she saw a hint of sorrow.

"Dogs bite, little bird. A dog will sink his teeth into you and clamp down his jaw, leaving you scarred and maimed. And then all the love you felt for that dog disappears, and as you dress your wounds, you tell yourself how stupid it was to feel affection for the damned beast."

He didn't say another word to Sansa, nor she to him, until the white cliffs beneath the tower of Storm's End came into view on the horizon the next morning.


	15. Chapter 15

The little stretch of sea between Tarth and Storm's End wasn't called "Shipbreaker Bay" for no reason. This was a fact that Sandor Clegane would discover first-hand.

As the high tower of the Baratheon hold appeared on the horizon in the morning, he mumbled to Sansa, speaking his first words in perhaps twelve hours to her,

"Those clouds look ominous."

He glanced over to where she was huddled on the swaying floor of the skiff, and realized she was still sleeping. She was wrapped in the cloak they'd stolen, and though her hair was a tattered mess and her skin was streaked with dirt, she still was lovely in Sandor's eyes.

Sandor looked back up to the sky, where a host of black clouds had gathered and were beginning to swirl menacingly above him. As he stared skyward, the first few droplets of rain touched his cheeks and nose. The rain was soft, refreshing, but sent a panic through Sandor as he realized they were about to get caught in a storm. Indeed, the wind began rising around him, and Sandor felt a pang of fear… not for himself, for if he were to drown here it would be no worse than any other death he'd escaped over the years, but for Sansa.

"Little bird," he said loudly, pulling the oars with all of his might to guide them toward Storm's End. Sansa stirred in front of him, pulling herself groggily up onto the bench opposite Sandor. She looked around, her blue eyes narrow from sleep, and then he saw her gulp. The rain began to fall harder now, quickly soaking Sansa's auburn hair. Sandor rowed with all his strength and watched as Sansa's wet tendrils whipped her face in the great gusts of wind. She clutched each side of the rowboat, for one blow of the storm nearly threw her from the boat. She stared at Sandor with terrified eyes, and he assured her,

"Don't worry. I'm not going to let you drown." He grunted with each pull of the oars, fighting the way the wind was blowing them away from Storm's End.

For an hour he rowed and pulled and battled the sea, until his breath burned in his overworked lungs and his arms felt as though they would fail at any moment. But he couldn't stop. He needed to get Sansa to shore. He glanced over his shoulder, but in the pouring rain, he could see nothing on the horizon. He prayed they were nearing Storm's End, but could not deny that he felt the skiff drifting rather uncontrollably in the tossing storm.

As he stared over his shoulder at the blurred mess that was the horizon, Sandor saw a great wave headed straight for the skiff. He knew he wouldn't be able to handle the swell, not with the way his arms had become completely exhausted from an entire night of rowing. He gripped the oars as hard as he could and shouted over the wind,

"Sansa, hold tightly now!"

The sound of the boat smashing as it overturned violently in the wake of the rogue wave was something Sandor would never forget all the days of his life. Nor would he ever be able to erase the crippling fear that nearly kept him underwater as he realized he had no idea where Sansa was.

When the boat overturned, Sandor was plunged into the water. The cold sea felt like a thousand knives on his skin, and Sandor struggled against the weight of his woolen garments toward the surface. He used his feet to kick off his boots, feeling them slip from his body and finding himself more able to swim. He gasped for air as his head broke the surface, and he immediately scanned the rolling waves around him for Sansa. She was nowhere to be seen.

"Sansa!" Sandor shouted, pushing aside a bit of wooden flotsam as he searched for her. He was tossed about like he weighed nothing, and when another huge wave crashed over his head, he feared he would die without having saved her. "Sansa!" he called again, this time hearing the anguish in his own weak voice.

Then he saw it - a mass of red hair, floating just below the surface, drifting around like an auburn cloud in the gray sea. Sandor reached out in desperation, clutching her hair and yanking her toward him. He pulled her up above the water, noting with a sickening fear that she was unresponsive, her eyes shut as if in slumber. She had a wound on her scalp that was bleeding; he guessed a chunk of the broken-up ship must have smacked her in the head as they were thrown into the sea.

"Come on, little bird," Sandor mumbled feebly, wondering if it was salt water or his own tears causing his eyes to burn so fiercely. He wrapped an arm around Sansa's torso and struggled to keep her afloat as he reached for a plank of wood that was being tossed around beside him. Overhead, a great burst of lightning illuminated the sky in a flash of raging purple, and a vociferous boom of thunder followed. "Wake up, little bird..."

Sandor was powerless to swim now, only able to drift aimlessly as he used one arm to hold fast to the floating wood and the other to keep Sansa above the surface of the water. Over the enormous waves they tumbled and glided, all the while Sandor shouting at Sansa and gently slapping her cheek, trying hard to get her to wake.

Eventually, Sandor felt himself losing touch with where he was, and some corner of his mind began to see them in a place that was warm and sunny - somewhere Dorne, might be, or King's Landing in better times. Sansa would walk hand-in-hand with him through lush gardens, and he wouldn't care what a fool he looked as he let the little girl turn him into a sniveling idiot. At some point in their drifting, Sandor lost the ability to tell dream from reality, and he began to think they really were in that sunny garden, and not dying on the stormy sea.

Sandor let himself shut his eyes, at some point, though his arm still held fast to Sansa. His mind barely registered the feeling of being violently thrown against something hard, and his body hardly felt the rough stones of the shore as they cut into his back. He did notice that they were no longer moving, that the constant swell of the ocean had stopped. Somehow, Sandor managed to crack open his eyes, to lift his head off of the rocky shore and to make sure that Sansa was still beside him. There were cliffs before him, though they were not the white ones of Storm's End. They were red, and above them Sandor could see a castle perched.

He'd been here once before, Sandor knew, though it felt like it had been a lifetime ago. This was the seat of the Connington knights… Griffin's Roost. Too exhausted to imagine how they were going to get into the castle, or what would await them inside, Sandor rolled onto his back, pulled the unresponsive Sansa against him, and shut his eyes.

Notes:

I promise that more smut is coming... mwah hahahahahahaha!

Thank you so incredibly much for all the feedback I've received, and thanks in advance for your comments on this chapter! They really do help me write quickly and guide the plot.


	16. Chapter 16

Sandor sank into the steaming water with a hiss through his teeth. He wedged his enormous body into the wooden tub clearly built for a smaller man, and once he was as submerged as he was going to get, he reached for the goblet of wine he'd set down on the floor beside the tub. It was a gorgeous Dornish red, too good a wine for a man like Sandor, he thought. He glanced around at the aging tapestries on the wall, the leaded panes of rippled glass through which the last remnants of the evening glowed. The room in which the servants had set up his bathing implements was spacious enough, and luxurious enough, though Sandor was still at ease in Griffin's Roost.

He'd awakened to the feel of Sansa shaking him, and to the sound of her little voice.

"Please wake up… don't do this to me… please, please wake up…"

He'd cracked his eyes to see vibrant sunshine. The storm had passed. He'd glanced over at Sansa and saw that her scalp was still dribbling blood onto her forehead. Her shift was soaked through, Sandor had noted with a pang of delight, ignoring their grim circumstances as his eyes had focused on the shadows of her nipples that were so evident through the translucent wet linen.

"We need to get into the castle," Sansa had reminded him, and they'd walked about the rocky beach until they'd found a hidden door that led to a long, winding staircase. Up and up and up they'd climbed, Sandor's gut roiling with hunger and nerves and want of wine or ale. At the top of what seemed like a thousand stairs, they found yet another doorway. Sandor had stood there, waiting for his heart to slow and his breath to return, and then he'd thrown open the door, realizing with a start that he'd lost Gregor's sword in the sea.

His fears, and Sansa's, had been put partially to rest when the servants of Griffin's Roost had recognized him as The Hound and her as a Stark daughter, and they'd immediately set to making the visitors at home. Griffin's Roost was a loyal Baratheon home, they'd promised, and Ser Ronnet Connington had gone off to fight for King Stannis in the Battle of the Blackwater. They'd not received a raven from him on his fate, but rumor was that he was alive but had been taken prisoner during the battle, and had verbally sworn fealty to King Joffrey. The servants assured Sandor that Ser Ronnet and everyone in Griffin's Roost would always be loyal to Storm's End, and that the small castle was to be like home for the visitors until their master knight arrived again.

Sandor and Sansa had been immediately ushered to their respective guest chambers, and Sandor imagined that Sansa was being attended to by a host of chattering maids now. He could just see her, her hair being washed and her clean body being bound into a lovely borrowed dress that the girls would tell her she could keep.

Chuckling darkly under his breath, Sandor glanced around and noted the absence of servants in his own chamber. Certainly, they'd been in to set up his bath, and they promised to come and empty it when he was done. They'd placed carefully folded clothes upon a chair for him, telling him that, of course not, Ser Ronnet Connington wouldn't mind a bit if Sandor wore some of his older clothing. Then they'd shuffled out of the room and left him here alone, to bathe himself and think on the fact that he'd almost lost Sansa to the sea.

That thought plagued Sandor's mind as he rubbed aromatic oils onto his skin. He let the dark scents of black pepper oil and sandalwood waft up into his nostrils as he smoothed the oil over his dirty flesh. Then he reached for the brass strigil beside the tub and began scraping his skin. Off came the thick coat of oil, and along with it all the dirt and salt and sand that had been clinging to him since the dungeons of Evenfall Hall.

He methodically cleansed his entire body, everywhere he could reach, scraping deeply along his limbs and chest and shoulders until he felt clean. He used a rough scrap of wool to clean his face, and then he rose from the tub and let the water and last bits of oil drip from his naked form. He wrapped himself in large swaths of linen, and he dabbed at his skin until it was dry. He noticed with a bit of surprise that the slice on his palm from Gregor's sword still had not sealed. It was no longer bleeding, but looked as though a bit of dirt might set off festering. Sandor wondered how Sansa's head was doing as he ripped at one of the towels until he'd made a linen bandage, which he tied around his hand. He hoped someone would bring a maester to her, that someone would put a poultice upon it and give her a drop of milk of the poppy if she had pain.

Sandor turned to the chair where his clothes were waiting, noticing that some maid had placed a little wooden comb atop the pile, too. Sandor combed a bit of the spicy oil through his locks, yanking through the tangles. He pulled on the smallclothes that were folded there, roughspun but laundered. Next came a pair of dark brown woolen breeches, which fit him a bit more tightly than he'd have liked, and a long tan tunic with a wide leather belt that just barely closed around his waist.

Sandor noticed that the sleeves of the tunic were awkwardly short on him, so he rolled them to his elbows and ignored the tightness of his breeches. Of course Ser Ronnet Connington couldn't be expected to have clothes big enough for a Clegane on hand. Absently, Sandor wondered what Sansa would wear to sup with him, and he ambled from the chambers, wine skin in hand, toward the dining room to find out.

The smell of food attracted him to the room from yards away. This castle was not large, but it was refined, and as Sandor walked beneath the stone arches of the main corridor, he perceived the mingling aromas of meat and baked bread, and his mouth watered fiercely. When at last he entered the dining room, he beheld a large narrow table before a raging fire. Bristling a bit at the sight of the flames, Sandor focused instead on the bounty of food upon the table.

There were sops of fresh crusted bread, floating upon horn trenchers of delicate oils and spices. There were purple carrots and beets roasted upon a platter, topped with sprigs of fresh herbs. A cooked swan lay resplendent beside a suckling pig, which was accompanied by a halo of figs and dates. There were several wheels of hard and soft cheeses sitting upon wooden cutting boards, with small ornate knives beside them. There was a platter of sea lampreys in a bath of Dornish red wine, and another platter holding apples and strawberries drizzled in honey. It was an overwhelming amount of delicious food, and Sandor felt and heard his stomach growl loudly.

A proud-looking servant, a plump woman of perhaps thirty years, wrung her hands and grinned sheepishly.

"We've not had a proper excuse to present a good meal in many months," she explained, "what with Ser Ronnet gone."

The black-haired servant gestured to a chair, which she pulled away from the table, its heavy wooden legs scraping on the stone-tiled ground. Sandor nodded his thanks, rather awkwardly, and tried to sit as gracefully as a man his size could do. He'd not been raised a peasant; he knew how to comport himself at fine meals, but there was his bit of lumbering gigantism that seemed to accompany his every motion.

Sandor watched as the servant poured him a healthy dose of delicious-smelling mead, filling his horn mug nearly to the brim. He thanked her again with a brief grin and a nod, and he set to gulping down the sweet mead. It tasted of honey and cloves and cinnamon, and Sandor reckoned he could drink an entire barrel of the stuff himself. He downed the entire mug in five or six gulps, and when he sat the horn back upon the table, the servant woman immediately refilled it from her enormous jug. Sandor smiled to himself at the service and quality of the cuisine. He'd leave this room with a full belly and a swimming head.

"Good evening, my Lady," he heard the servant say, and Sandor glanced over his shoulder to see Sansa in the arched doorway. Upon sight of her, Sandor rose from his chair and turned to face her, giving her a small bow and putting his thick hand on the back of his chair. She gave him her own little obeisance, dipping her head as she curtsied.

She looked radiant in the candlelight. She positively glowed in a sapphire blue dress that made her eyes radiate their piercing azure hue. Her red hair contrasted beautifully with the blue brocade of the gown, and the shining golden threads that worked their way about the concoction, forming decorative rivulets and knots, made her seem like a true angel sent by the gods to make Sandor's breath hitch in his throat.

Her copper hair had been washed and styled into luscious waves tumbling over her shoulders, with a few braids brought back and knotted at her crown. The cut upon her upper forehead had been tended to and didn't look as frightening now as it had done before. Her lips were darker than usual, and Sandor knew the servants had used some sort of rouge upon them, and on her cheeks, as well. She looked older, wiser, somehow. Sandor tried to speak, tried to tell her how lovely she looked, but as she was escorted to her seat across from him, his throat became suddenly very dry, and the words escaped him. Sansa wore the smallest wicked grin on her face, barely perceptible, but Sandor thought she knew how beautiful she was tonight.

She sat then, and the servant woman brought her mead and began to serve her food. Sansa's plate was piled high with meats and figs and honey-drizzled berries, with oiled breads and roasted root vegetables. Sansa's eyes glowed with ravenous hunger as she silently watched the servant woman give her food, and then she murmured,

"Thank you."

She never forgot her courtesies… Sandor knew that to be true. He smiled a bit at the sight of a banished Stark giving thanks for a meal.

The servant woman came to Sandor next, and she gave him lots of meat and fish and breads, along with the other foods. She must have sensed how he felt he'd been starving these last few weeks since they'd left King's Landing, and Sandor nodded gratefully at her when his plate was full.

He waited for Sansa to take a bite before he did, for that was what decent men did, but she surprised him when she said,

"I should like to thank the Mother before we begin."

Sandor cocked his chin to the side and flashed her a crooked smile. "Thank her quickly. I'm famished."

Sansa bowed her head and clasped her hands in her lap. Sandor watched her intently as she prayed aloud,

"Gentle Mother, thank you for the gift of hospitality among these good, fine people of Griffin's Roost. Thank you for the food, the drink, the baths, the warm beds that await us. Thank you for saving our lives in the storm on the sea. And, most of all, Mother, thank you for my gentleman companion… my champion… Sandor Clegane. A truer and more valiant warrior has never been known unto me. Thank you for him, Mother." She raised her eyes and looked as though she were coming out of a dream. She sighed deeply, and a serene little smile crossed her scarlet lips. "Now we may eat."

She took a strawberry first, and Sandor watched as a drop of honey dribbled down over her fingertips when she squeezed the berry between her white teeth. She giggled a little, looking abashed as she licked the honey and strawberry juices from her fingers.

Sandor shivered. There was something in the way she'd looked straight into his eyes as she ate the strawberry that made blood rush between his thighs. Within his too-tight woolen breeches, he could feel himself growing hard as he watched her eat. She made delightful little moaning sounds of approval as she reveled in the sweetness of the fruit, the savory meats and vegetables, and the filling breads.

Sandor only realized that he was too busy watching her to eat when she prodded, "Your food will be cold before you've had a single bite."

She pulled a whole apple from the tray of honeyed fruits, and she stared at Sandor as she sank her teeth into the apple's skin. Her eyes fluttered shut at the taste of the honey. Sandor felt himself straining against his breeches, and he suddenly thought perhaps she was eating this way on purpose, to tease him mercilessly. Sandor took an enormous swig of mead and stabbed his fingers angrily at the meat before him. He thrust a piece of swan into his mouth and chewed loudly, gulping down more mead to wash it down. Sansa raised her eyebrows a bit at his crudeness but said nothing, choosing instead to delicately dip her bread into a bit of oil and place it carefully between her lips. She leaned over the table to avoid dripping oil on her dress.

Fine, Sandor thought. She could eat like a lady, then, and he'd eat like an animal. He could accept that.

When they'd both eaten and drunk their fill, the plates were cleared and Sansa stood from her chair. Sandor rose instantly, feeling the pull of chivalry despite his disdain for the concept.

"I shall escort you back to your chamber," he said, pursing his lips and holding down an arm for her to take. She came around the table and laced her arm through his, her little fingers clutching very gently at his bare forearm. She smiled weakly as they left the dining room, both again nodding and giving their thanks to the servant woman.

Then they were alone in the corridor that led to the bedchambers, and Sansa let her hand slip from Sandor's arm. Her hand fell to the side of her pretty blue dress, and she cleared her throat softly.

"You told me that dogs bite."

Sandor gulped heavily, remembering what he'd said to her in the skiff before the shipwreck. He knew what he'd said, and he knew how he felt now, after almost losing her again. Perhaps he was dangerous, but he wanted so badly for Sansa not to care that he wasn't safe for her. He wanted her not to care that he was ugly, or uncouth, or lower born than she. He wanted for Sansa to love him. And hadn't she said that she did?

"I did say that, little bird," he affirmed. They'd reached her chambers now, and Sandor leaned to open the heavy wooden door. It creaked ajar, and Sandor cocked his head toward the bedchamber. "Try to sleep. You need rest. Goodnight, little bird."

He bowed slightly and turned to go, to leave her there without so much as a touch to her cheek, much less a kiss goodnight, and he felt a pang of separation in his gut the moment he rotated away from her. She immediately grasped his arm, and he turned back, looking into Sansa's blue eyes and searching them. They glowed in the candlelight, wet from tears that were beginning to form in them. There was a question, there, too - in those sapphire eyes - and she proceeded to ask it aloud.

"Fine. Dogs bite. Will you bite me, My Lord?"

Sandor bit his lip hard and smirked. "Is that a question or a request?"

Sansa looked hurt. She nodded and stared at the floor. "I suppose what you say is true. The dog nips and nips, threatening a fatal wound and delivering only little feints of bites." She curtsied to him, too low, and murmured, "Good night, Sandor."

She continued staring at the floor of the corridor, waiting for him to leave, and Sandor shifted on his feet awkwardly. Then he saw a tear plummet from her face and fall all the way to the stones, and it was too much. He shut his eyes and sighed angrily.

"Damn you, little bird," he growled, baring his teeth. She looked up at him, alarmed at his words, and within an instant he had her inside the bedchamber. He slammed the heavy wooden door shut behind them and pushed Sansa roughly up against the door with her back to him.

He wasn't sure what was making him behave so forcefully now. He thought perhaps it was just pent-up sexual frustration. He'd not had a whore in months, hadn't been able to finish inside of Sansa, and now here they were alone in a bedchamber, well-fed and free.

He heard her whimper a little as he shoved her against the door, and he realized quickly that he was being too rough. He loosened his grip on her wrists, just enough so that she could ball her hands into little fists. He kissed her neck from behind, shoving her long waves over one shoulder to give him access to the delicate skin below her ear. Sansa moaned into the door wantonly at the feel of his mouth suckling her flesh. He nibbled there, and she yelped a little. He laughed low in his throat, enjoying her powerful reactions to what he was doing.

Sandor felt blood rush into his cock and fill it, felt it begin to strain against his breeches, which suddenly were painfully tight. One of his hands left Sansa's wrist to untie the laces at his waist, and the other hand moved to unfasten the brass clasps at the back of Sansa's blue dress. His right hand pulled his cock from his breeches and stroked gently, the linen of the bandage causing a delightful friction upon his hardened shaft. He yanked the breeches down and off with one hand, kicking them away with frustration. He whipped his tunic over his head and threw it somewhere near where he thought the breeches had landed.

His left hand pushed Sansa's dress off of her shoulders and let it fall to the floor, where it pooled around her feet. He unlaced the ties of her shift, and Sansa obligingly moved her body to remove the thin garment.

Then she was standing there nude, facing away from him so that he couldn't see her breasts or mound. All he could see was the smooth, pale expanse of her back, the exquisite cleft between her round buttocks.

He wanted her. Now. He could hear that she wanted him, too, if her little mewling moans were indication. But he would make them both wait. He stood behind her, letting her feel his hard length as he brushed the small of her back with the tip of his cock. She shuddered hard against the door, flattening her palms on the ancient wood and sighing deeply.

His hands reached around her, gently brushing her ribcage on the way to her breasts. Sandor's eyes clenched shut and he felt a hiss escape Sansa's lips when his calloused thumbs brushed her nipples. They were hard nubs, and when he flicked his thumbs mockingly over them, she groaned.

Sandor's left hand drifted southward while his right hand continued to squeeze and caress her breast and to fiddle with her nipple. The fingers of his left hand glided gently over her flat stomach, through the little thatch of hair between her thighs, which she parted to accommodate his hand.

Her head tipped back and her lips parted the moment that his fingertips touched the damp warmth of her folds. He slid the rough pad of his middle finger around her entrance, teasing but never invading her, and used his thumb to put pressure on her nub. He leaned forward and kissed her neck, letting his hands explore her breasts and orifice.

"Take me, Sandor… please, please take me," Sansa whispered, and though Sandor wanted and planned to do so, he wanted to make this last for the both of them. He could feel that she was getting more wet by the second, that she was swollen and throbbing between her legs, and he knew that if he kept caressing her like this, she'd tumble through her orgasm before he could even properly lay eyes upon her. He moved both hands abruptly to her waist, and he spun her around to face him. She looked surprised, and a little disappointed, her eyes wide and her mouth panting.

"Come here, little bird," he commanded, and he took a few steps back until he was sitting on the edge of the bed. She reached out for him when he stepped away, and he beckoned her near.

Obediently and silent except for the insistent panting breath coming through her lips, Sansa walked to meet him. Sandor pulled his thighs apart so she could stand between them, and her little trembling hand reached down to wrap around his shaft. She was no expert at this, and so her palm and fingers slid clumsily up and over his tip and back down his length, quivering all the while. She stared into his gray eyes while she touched him, and meeting her gaze was too much. Sandor was going to spill himself before he'd had a chance to enter her, and he shut his eyes tightly as he reached to yank Sansa's hand from his member.

"You don't like when I touch you?" she asked, sounding unsure of herself.

"I like it far too well," he replied, letting a huff of air out from where it had been suspensefully held in his lungs. "I won't last if you touch me like that."

Sansa seemed to sense that they both needed him to be inside of her now, and she wordlessly climbed onto his lap, putting a leg on either side of his waist and leaning her weight onto the mattress. Sandor planted his hands on her tiny waist, and helped guide her down onto his member. He hissed and she moaned as his length pushed into her entrance, still incredibly tight from inexperience. He wondered if it still hurt for her, but the look of pure bliss on Sansa's grinning face told him that she was in no pain.

She began to move on him when he was only halfway inside of her, and she worked her way fully onto him with every little twist of her hips. Sandor heard a groan rip forth from low in his chest, and every hair on his scarred body stood on end.

"Do you know how many times I've dreamed of doing something like this to you?" he asked her, and she shook her head no with a sly smile. Sandor sighed, absorbing the glorious sensation of her little body atop him. "Every single dream since I met you," he informed her.

Something in his words seemed to set her off, and she quickened her motions on his cock and began moaning more constantly. She liked when he spoke to her like that, he thought with a wicked smile. He pulled her torso hard against his chest, smashing her breasts into his collarbone, and mumbled in her ear,

"In my dreams, I've rutted you mercilessly from behind. I've taken you against a door. I've tasted you and made you writhe around for me as you screamed my name."

She bucked her hips hard a few times, and he knew she was very close to her release. Hearing how his own voice was gasping and hoarse with arousal, he growled again more into her ear,

"In my dreams, I've spilled my seed on your lips and on your breasts and inside your magnificent body. I've kissed your lips gently as I moved slowly above you in the darkness of a private room; I've heard you shriek as I pounded you mercilessly in the godswood. I've taken you a thousand times, little bird… in my dreams. I'll take you two thousand times beyond them."

He was panting now, and could speak no more, but he didn't need to. Sansa was bobbing up and down quickly, her small breasts bouncing beautifully in the moonlight, as she found her pleasure atop him. The feel of her walls clenching around his throbbing cock was too much, and Sandor lost himself in his climax.

He clutched her waist tightly, yanking her down to the base of his member so that there was no space between them, and as his seed pumped into her body, he heard his own rasping voice over the ringing of his ears,

"Fucking hells, little birds, but I love you."

He wasn't sure why he told her that, why he said he loved her as he finished inside of her. But then he dressed himself in his borrowed clothes again and had bid her a soft goodnight with a gentle kiss upon her full lips before striding down the corridor. His own room felt empty and hollow without her there, and on his skin he could smell traces of her wonderful aroma - a forest after a cool rain.

He slid down against his own bedchamber door until he was sitting on the stone floor, staring at his neatly made, but empty, bed. And then he realized why he'd said what he did as he'd filled Sansa with his essence. It wasn't just a jumble of impassioned words escaping his lips. It had been a plea, a declaration, an admission.

Sandor Clegane had never loved another person before, though he'd spent decades trying to do so. But there was no doubt in any piece of him of the truth he could scarcely admit to himself: He did love her, with every ounce of his being.

Terrified by the thought of spending the night, or any night, without her, Sandor rose and flung his door open. He strode back down the hallway to Sansa's room.

A/N: Finally, some smut, amirite?

LOL. In any case, I'm sorry for the ridiculously long chapter. I started writing and wound up unable to stop for 2.5 hours. Yeesh. My fingers hurt.

Thank you so much to those who have taken a moment to leave their thoughts on the story. Your comments mean so incredibly much to me and are extraordinarily helpful in my writing process.

Much love to all.


	17. Chapter 17

"Sansa…"

She heard her name come quietly through her bedchamber door, accompanied by a gently rapping on the wood. Sansa had just put on the borrowed night robe that had been left for her upon a chair in her chambers. It was a pale, dusty pink, woven from fine chiffon velvet, and it draped elegantly around Sansa's lithe legs and pooled a bit upon the floor. The deep V of the neckline revealed the soft curve of her breasts, and its wide sash of a belt nipped her waist in tightly. It was, perhaps, among the most beautiful garments Sansa had ever seen, let alone worn. She was just setting to combing the tangles through her long locks, remnants of Sandor's fingers clutching to her scalp, when she heard his gentle knock upon the door.

She felt a stirring on want for him when he said her name. Sansa... He murmured it like the most desperate of prayers, pleading her to grant him admittance to her room once more. So she did, setting down the ornately carved ox-horn comb upon the squat little table beside her bed. She rose and cleared her throat gently, feeling her heart race as she turned the iron handle of the door and pulled it open.

There stood Sandor, his eyes wider than she was accustomed to seeing them as he sized her up in her pale pink velvet gown.

"Hello again," Sansa said, flashing him a bit of a wicked smile. She saw where his eyes went, so she nonchalantly brushed her fingertips over her collarbone and allowed them to drift down over her breasts until they fell back down. She grinned inside as she saw Sandor gulp heavily.

"I… came to say… I should like to… damn it all to the seven hells themselves." Sandor sighed shortly, shifting uncomfortably on his feet and finally meeting Sansa's blue gaze. "Let me in, little bird," he finally said, and she heard the determination in his steely, rasping voice even as she watched his fingers tremble at his sides before balling into tight fists. Sansa nodded, opening the door wider and stepping aside for him to enter the room.

She shut the door behind him and gestured for him to sit upon her bed, where they'd made love not a quarter hour previously, but he ignored her entirely.

"You're in my head now. Do you know that?" Sandor said suddenly, his voice acrid in the darkness. He stared at her comb on the table, desperate to avoid her eyes. Sansa moved to step in front of him as she replied,

"You've occupied my head for some time now. I'm glad the invasion has been mutual."

Sandor steeled his jaw, his lips twitching as he tried not to smile sardonically. Sansa wanted nothing more right now than to kiss him heartily upon the mouth, but he seemed as though he were full of questions, of answers, of declarations and poetry he didn't want to recite.

"I'm going to take you home, little bird," Sandor promised her, as he'd done many times before. Sansa smiled weakly at him and dropped her eyes, but then she heard him continue, "And when I've got you back in the North, I should like very much to stand with you before a septon and make you a promise that can't be broken."

Sandor crossed his arms over his chest, his arm muscles flexing with the tension that had been in his hoarse voice. Sansa felt her heart go still in her chest. She tried to take a breath but found herself entirely unable, as though there were a heavy stone upon her chest. She blinked rapidly for a minute and tried to gather herself, and then when she found her breath, she gasped for air. The room was spinning. Did he… had he just…

"Are you asking me to be your wife?" Sansa demanded, hearing skepticism in her own voice. He must have heard it, too, and interpreted it as disbelief that he'd thought she would marry him, for Sandor's eyes shut and he sighed a bit, tightening his arms over his chest in his embarrassment.

"Yes, little bird, that's exactly what I'm doing." He ambled aimlessly over to where the little table beside the bed and picked up the horn comb. He fingered it, studying it closely in the moonlight. "You're a daughter of the most powerful lord in the North. Or at least, that's what you were before they murdered your father and your brother took up arms against the king. Now you would have very few prospects for marriage, I should think."

Sansa was abruptly filled with rage at him. Why couldn't he simply ask her to marry him because he loved her? Why must the issue at hand be that he was the best she could hope to do? She squared her jaw, stalked to stand before him again, and reminded him harshly, "I can't marry you because I am betrothed to His Grace the King."

Sandor barked a laugh then, too loud in the darkness, and Sansa startled. She leapt back, away from him. "His Grace the King?" Sandor roared, tipping his head back in amusement. He would have looked delicious in his mirth, if he hadn't been laughing at Sansa herself. "His Grace the King would prefer your severed head to your cunt, little bird."

Sansa felt her cheeks flush hot with anger, felt her eyes prickle with tears that she refused to shed, felt her stomach roil with rage. She placed her hands firmly upon her hips and took a deep, shaking breath. Then she said very quietly, her words like daggers made of ice, "Do not ever presume to call me your 'little bird' again. For I am no longer caged, and I shall no longer sing for a dog. You disgrace yourself, ser, to speak to a lady in such a manner. And your marriage proposal has been a dismal failure; your cruelty does not convince me to join you at your side for the rest of my days. Indeed, ser, it repels me. Please return to your chambers at once."

Sandor was silent for a very long moment as he stared at her, and Sansa shook her head. She lost the cold resolve she'd mustered before, and the tears that burned her eyes began to spill down her cheeks. "Please just go," she whispered.

But he resolutely stayed where he stood, his gray eyes boring into her blue ones as he rasped, "I love you, Sansa Stark. I wish I didn't, but I do. I thought I was meant to be solitary all my days, to settle for a whore here or there and to be loyal to no one but my masters. Then we rode north to Winterfell, and there these tired eyes laid themselves upon a beautiful rose blossoming in the snow. She was young, too young then, but I was determined to wait for her flowering and then beg her to settle for me." He scoffed a little at himself and ripped his eyes away from her, looking back at the horn comb in his fingers. "Me, the younger son of a minor house, a deformed old monster. When she could have anybody, anybody at all in the Seven Kingdoms. Yes, I was foolish. And that was before I knew I loved you. I only wanted you, and there's a difference. It's not easy for a fighter like me to admit to himself that he can't have what he wants. But that admission is entirely impossible once a creature like me has let himself fall in love."

He fingered the comb again and stared at it, and Sansa realized he wanted it because it had been pulled through her hair. She was ashamed, all of a sudden, after hearing the confirmation of his love and the admission of shame. Sandor Clegane, in Sansa's experience, neither apologized nor admitted weakness, and Sandor had just circuitously done both.

She reached forward and closed her hand around his so that he held the comb tightly in his palm. She stared up at him and waited until his grey eyes met hers before speaking. "You are right," she nodded. "I could have had anybody, before. I'm glad I didn't. I'm not glad my father is dead, or that Robb's fighting a war. But I am glad that I remain unwed and that now nobody illustrious would have me. It allows me the freedom to marry for love. That's precisely what I shall do. There's only one husband I want now."

She stretched up upon her toes and leaned until her lips touched his. She watched as Sandor shut his eyes and sighed into her kiss, his hands releasing the comb and letting it clatter to the floor as he reached up to tangle her hair once more. He continued kissing her fiercely as he urged her backward, where she fell to sit upon the mattress. He genuflected before her and resumed their kiss, and Sansa began to feel the coil of desire for him tightening in her abdomen. She placed her palm against his scarred cheek and kissed him with all of her might.

"Take me home," Sansa pleaded into Sandor's mouth, "and then never leave me."

In the morning, Sansa and Sandor each borrowed a horse from Griffin's Roost. They packed up dry food and lots of wine skins, and Sansa brought along an extra gown and shift that had been gifted to her by the staff of the small castle. Sandor gruffly promised the servants that their hospitality would be mentioned the very next time he saw Ser Ronnet. Then the two of them set off away from the castle, along the "griffin's throat" that wound as a thin ridge down the red cliffs. Off into the Stormlands they rode, and only when Sansa turned over her shoulder at could barely see Griffin's Roost did she ask,

"Where are we going now?"

She'd simply led her dapple grey mare alongside his dark bay gelding, staying one step behind him and fully trusting him to lead the way to their destination. Sansa didn't care much where they were going; all she cared was that she was going with Sandor. But, eventually, her curiosity got the best of her, and so she spoke her question and eyed him askance, waiting for an answer. For a long moment, Sandor said nothing, staring straight ahead. Then at last he said,

"We are going North. We'll skirt the Crownlands and recoup ourselves at the Eyrie. Perhaps your Aunt Lysa will have some word of where your mother and brother are. And then once we've tracked them down, we'll find a septon, and we'll get you a fine dress in whatever color and fabric you want. I'll even deign to wear fine clothes myself, and we'll say the words that need to be said before gods and men so that I can call you my own. Here. Take this."

He reached into the small suede pouch that hung from his belt and extracted the ox horn comb that he'd taken from Sansa's bedchamber in Griffin's Roost. Sansa marveled as he handed it over that he'd cared enough to steal it at all, and as she tucked it away, she flashed him a little smile.

"You'll be needing that," Sandor said, his voice gruff and rasping and his eyes staring straight ahead again, "To fix your hair after the next time I take you… and the time after that, and the time after that. And then, on our wedding day, you can do your pretty red hair however you want with that comb. I won't care if it's in plaits or curls. Do whatever you want. All that will matter to me is that you'll be mine."

Sansa felt her eyes prickle, and she swept roughly at them with the back of her hand. She saw out of the corner of her vision that Sandor was staring intently at her as he rode his bay through the last bit of the griffin's throat.

"Someday the world will end, little bird. It'll be burned to the ground or succomb to the chaos of the Long Night. If I'm here when that happens, I won't care at all, as long as I've got your hand in mine when I die."

A/N: I apologize for the interjection of fluffy angst. There were simply some words that I wanted these two to speak to each other, whether in the moonlight or on horseback.

Thank you all so incredibly much for your ongoing feedback. I can not properly express how helpful it is to see accolades and tips. I sincerely hope that the story is enjoyable, and I really do cherish every comment. Thank you so much.


	18. Chapter 18

Their path through the Stormlands and Crownlands took them through rainy forests and over rolling hills. Night after night, Sansa slept wrapped in Sandor's arms as The Hound leaned against tree trunks or splayed himself out on a grassy field. She often dreamed wonderful things there, in his nightly embrace, and she adored the feeling of his fingers threading themselves through her hair as they drifted off to sleep. She would wake every morning before him, and watch him breathe slowly and peacefully until he opened his gray eyes.

Their path through the Stormlands and Crownlands took them through rainy forests and over rolling hills. Night after night, Sansa slept wrapped in Sandor's arms as The Hound leaned against tree trunks or splayed himself out on a grassy field. She often dreamed wonderful things there, in his nightly embrace, and she adored the feeling of his fingers threading themselves through her hair as they drifted off to sleep. She would wake every morning before him, and watch him breathe slowly and peacefully until he opened his gray eyes.

One night, they rode well into the darkness, and hid themselves in a bit of forest after climbing a large hill. The High Road was somewhere nearby, though of course they were trying to stay off of it. Sandor had tied the horses up to nearby trees after letting them drink from a stream, and he'd laid out his borrowed cloak and settled upon it, holding out his arms expectantly so that he could envelop Sansa against his chest. She'd hovered above him, staring at him through the darkness with a sad smile upon her lips.

"You've not touched me since we left Griffin's Roost," she noted, and as he tightened his stomach muscles to pull himself up to sit, she felt a pang of want. It had been weeks since they'd made love, and she wanted him badly enough now that she was not certain she could spend another night being the recipient of chaste kisses and little touches. She wanted him, all of him, just like that wonderful night before they'd left the castle.

Sandor had flashed her an embarrassed little smirk. He pushed a stray lock of hair out of his eyes. "I didn't want you thinking that lust was my only motivation with you, little bird. I'm of a filthy mind, I admit it. And I damn well enjoy the feel of my cock buried to its hilt inside of you."

Sansa felt herself blush at Sandor's crass words, and she looked away in humiliation. But Sandor relentlessly continued,

"True enough that I've wanted to take you every night since we left Griffin's Roost, little bird. I've wanted you on the forest floor, in the meadows… I've wanted to pull my horse aside and snatch you from your mare and rut you in the middle of the daylight in the sight of gods and men alike. But I haven't done that yet, because I should like to prove, to myself if no one else, that your presence in my mind goes beyond such things."

Sansa raised her eyebrows. It was oddly pleasant to hear him change his tune and start discussing serious matters of love, but now she was exhausted after a long day of riding. And she was a bit confused to hear Sandor Clegane waxing poetic about emotion. With a little sigh, she lay beside him on the quilt and curled herself into his chest, feeling his strong heartbeat reverberate into her cheek.

"I went to your room the night of the Blackwater," Sandor said after a while of dark silence, "and I wasn't sure if I was going to leave with you or throw myself from the window, but I did not want to leave without you. I sat in there waiting for you, getting more and more drunk by the moment. I lay in your bed and I could smell you. I could feel you there. And that's why I began to cry, for the first time since Gregor shoved me onto those coals. There was something very horrifying about the idea of never seeing you again. It was more frightening than all the fire that night."

Sansa was quiet, brushing her fingers over his chest and letting them drift down his stomach. She heard a distant rumble of thunder, and she soon began to smell the black earth around them as the air grew heavy and moist. Then, as softly as they pleased, little raindrops began to fall from the sky, landing upon her pale skin and Sandor's. He drew her nearer him and wrapped them more tightly in his enormous cloak.

"It's going to get wet and cold, little bird," he warned her, "but we've nowhere else to go."

She nodded into his chest, letting the sounds of the rain pattering on the leaves couple with Sandor's slow breaths and steady heart. Within moments, she was asleep.

She woke because she was shivering so hard. She had no idea how long she'd been sleeping, but when her eyes cracked open, her teeth rattled, and she could feel that she was soaked to the bone. She felt Sandor's arms around her, and she knew he was trying his best to keep her warm. She shivered hard against him, wishing that at least her hair were dry.

"If you keep that wet dress on, it'll be the death of you," Sandor warned. The air was colder here than it had been at lower altitudes, and Sansa had never felt herself so chilled during all her time south of Winterfell. She laughed brusquely through her shivering, and scoffed,

"So you suggest that we lie here exposed and naked? On the ground?"

"That is precisely what I suggest," Sandor rasped gruffly. "My body will keep you warm. I can't keep your feathers dry, little bird, but I can stop your shivering."

Sansa sighed deeply. It was hardly that she minded the notion of lying nude beside Sandor, but why did it have to be in the middle of the muddy, cold, wet ground? She was brought back to her first time with him, rudely interrupted as they coupled on the filthy floor of a dungeon. It was fitting, perhaps, she thought with a smirk, that they continue their traditions and lie nude in the forest.

A few moments later, they'd slithered out of their clothes, and Sansa drew her naked body close to Sandor again. She slid her thigh across his lower abdomen and cast an arm across his broad chest. She heard him sigh happily at the feel of her body pressed against him, and she felt the push of his hardening member on her thigh.

Then, suddenly, Sandor was laughing, and Sansa confusedly asked,

"What is so funny?"

"It's... I dreamed this, once upon a time. I dreamed that you and I were lying in the rain, somewhere far away from Joffrey, and I kissed the raindrops off your skin and held onto your wet hair as I fucked you on the ground."

Sansa felt her cheeks flush hot, and she timidly said, "When did you dream that?"

Sandor sighed deeply, letting his fingers snarl themselves in Sansa's damp locks. "Too long ago," he admitted. "A lifetime ago, it seems. You're not the same little bird you were then."

Sansa felt a swell of want for him, deep in her abdomen, and she let her thigh move just enough to brush his hardening cock, feeling it twitch under her leg.

"I think," she murmured gently against his chest, "that you should find out just what kind of bird I am now."

She brushed her lips against his shoulder, shifting so that she could trail kisses down his muscular arm.

"Perhaps I am still nothing but a little sparrow," she mused, nibbling upon Sandor's bicep and letting her fingertips drift to his twitching member. She brushed them gently over his tip and felt the bud of liquid that had formed there. "Just a little sparrow, timid and afraid."

Sandor growled, deep in his throat, and Sansa felt his cock throbbing beneath her touch.

"But I'm not afraid anymore," Sansa insisted quietly, leaning down to give him a gentle kiss upon his lips, one he gladly returned. "I'm no sparrow now. Perhaps your little bird has grown into a falcon. Braver, I hope."

Sandor grunted softly, and he put his hands on Sansa's waist as he murmured, "I don't care what sort of bird you've become. Only that you're my little bird."

With that, he pulled her sideways until she was straddling him. She let him do it,feeling moisture blossom when his cock pressed at her entrance. Sansa took a deep breath and slowly sank onto him.

The cloak had fallen away, and the pouring rain fell all about her, the cold drops causing her nipples to harden into little peaks. Sansa heard Sandor groan loudly as she began to move atop him.

She felt his hands creep up her ribcage as lightning flashed overhead, followed soon by the rumble of thunder. The rain began to fall harder, and Sansa felt the water streaming over her naked skin. She bobbed up and down on Sandor as he fondled her breasts, and soon she heard him rasp,

"Do you know what sort of tree is above us?"

Sansa ripped his eyes from her face to look up. At first, she could see nothing, but then lightning flashed and she saw the shape of the leaves, the bark upon the trunk, and knew the tree to be a weirwood.

She looked down at Sandor, slowing her motions and clasping her hands over his upon her waist.

"No need for a sept when there's a weirwood present," Sandor reminded her.

Sansa gasped softly and felt her hands shaking in the cold. "Here?" she asked nervously, "now?"

Sandor just nodded. Sansa felt her lips part in disbelief. She felt Sandor's enormous hands rolling her hips deliberately atop him, and heard the tremble in his quiet voice as he spoke.

"Sansa Stark, I promise that I shall be your husband until the day I die. I will protect you, honor you, love you. I shall be yours, and you shall be mine, and there is nothing that shall stand between us. My love for you will only grow with the passage of time, and I will be loyal to you forever. I take you as my wife in the sight of the Old Gods."

Sansa felt tears burn in her eyes as the rain began to fall so hard that she had to shout so he could hear her. She rocked gently atop his naked body, her voice quivering with nerves as she said,

"Sandor Clegane, I promise that I shal be your wife until the day I die. I will be ever devoted to you in my heart, body, and spirit. I shall be yours and you shall be mine, and there is nothing that shall stand between us. I shall bear you strong sons and beautiful daughters, and I shall be beside you through winter and summer alike. I take you as my husband in the sight of the Old gods. May they bless us until the end of time."

She was crying steadily now, struggling to pronounce her vows as she shook with an overwhelming mix of emotion and physical pleasure.

She stared deeply into Sandor's eyes, dark though they were in the black night, and he smiled weakly back at her. He was her lord husband now. Sansa placed a palm flat against his cheek and leaned down to kiss him. As she did, she felt him pull her harder against him and knew he was finding his release inside of her.

"Little bird," Sandor moaned, stroking his fingertips over Sansa's rain-soaked back.

Sansa felt her own bliss explode, triggered by the feel of him pulsing inside of her. "I love you," she whispered desperately, feeling her walls clench rhythmically around him. "Husband."


	19. Chapter 19

It was nearly a week's ride further before Sandor and Sansa arrived at the Gates of the Moon. They emerged through the edge of the forest, leaving behind the enormous pines and spruce trees as they came face-to-face with the squat castle that guarded the way up to the Eyrie.

Sandor rather nervously guided his dark gelding into the yard of the Gates of the Moon, followed very closely by Sansa on her dapple grey mare. They were filthy, he knew. They'd not bathed properly since leaving the Griffin's Roost nearly a month previously. Sandor was glad for the fact that they'd come upon the hold of the Royce family, too, for their wine had run out the day before and his head was pounding for want of it. The mounts had walked more quickly the past half week, Sandor had noted, now that the heavy saddlebags full of dried foods had been emptied and the wineskins drained.

There was no doubt that he and Sansa needed provisions. Nonetheless, he felt a pang of unease as they waited in the yard after being admitted through the main gate.

"I shall fetch my lady Myranda Royce at once," a young man had said as they rode into the yard, and he had dashed off into the castle. Now, Sandor and Sansa waited in the yard, with Sandor on suspicious and on guard. He had a borrowed sword that he'd been lent at Griffin's Roost, but no armor. The feeling made him nervous. Coupled with his pounding head and nauseated stomach, the sensations combined to make Sandor feel weak and ineffective.

"Welcome! Welcome to the Gates of the Moon!"

Sandor glanced to the place where the merry voice originated, a side door that had been flung open. Out ran a girl perhaps a few years older than Sansa. She was short but curvaceous, with dark curls tumbling from her head. Her brown eyes shown with excitement as she saw who her guests were, and she curtsied low in front of the horses.

"Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell," she acknowledged graciously. "The niece of Lady Arryn is most welcome in the Vale." Sandor watched as the girls' eyes met, and he saw relief cross Sansa's face. He thought perhaps she was hoping she would have a friend at last. The idea made Sandor want to laugh at her, but a little part of him wished a friend for her, too. "And you, Ser Sandor of House Clegane. How wondrous it is to have you at our castle." Myranda Royce curtsied again in the direction of Sandor's horse.

"There's no Ser here," Sandor corrected her gruffly. When he saw confusion cross her gentle face, he specified, "I was never a knight, my lady, though I should think that even if I had been, I would not be one any longer. We are fugitives, Lady Sansa and I, with prices upon our heads. How are we to know that we have safe passage through here up to the Eyrie, to see the Lady Arryn? How are we to know that we will not be trapped and turned in for our bounties?"

Myranda Royce stiffened, pursing her lips. Her voice was preternaturally patient as she said, "The people of the Vale are fiercely loyal to House Arryn. Lord Eddard Stark was fostered here; there are those who still recall him as a boy. His wife is the sister of the Lady Lysa Arryn. I assure you, Ser... any Stark is safe at the Gates of the Moon."

Sandor hesitated, then thought the better of further argument. What the girl said was true. The Starks and Tullys held fair sway in the Vale. Sansa would be safer here than nearly anywhere else in the world.

And, besides, they almost certainly had wine here, and Sandor was in desperate need of a good sour red.

He nodded at Myranda Royce and slid off of his horse, walking to Sansa's grey mare and pulling his wife down gently. His hands lingered for a fleeting moment on her waist, and then he turned to their hostess once more.

She beckoned for the master of the stables to come and take the horses, and then she smiled genially at Sansa and said to the younger girl,

"Lady Sansa, your long travels no doubt have left you wanting sorely for a bath and a good meal. Please..." Myranda held out her arm, which Sansa seized happily. The two girls walked quickly toward the castle. Sandor followed close behind, shaking his head and sighing when he heard Myranda ask Sansa, her voice a whispered giggle, "You simply must tell me, my lady, how it has been to come all this way with a man like The Hound!"

Sansa didn't answer directly; she smiled broadly over her shoulder at Sandor and then turned with a girlish blush back to her hostess.

The bath Sandor was given at The Gates of the Moon felt even better than the one he took at the Griffin's Roost, for this time the water was piping hot and the oils smelled of peppermint and juniper. Sandor scraped his entire body three times over, using the strigil to harshly remove every trace of dirt from his skin. Sandor was not a man who craved or particularly relished cleanliness, but he felt that as Sansa's husband, he should make himself presentable when offered the opportunity.

Sandor was pulling on fresh woolen breeches and a jute-colored tunic when he heard a soft rapping upon the door to the bedchamber. It was a delicate, playful sort of knock, and Sandor knew it had to be Sansa. He walked briskly to the door and flung it open with a small smile upon his lips.

"Hello, little bird," he began, but then the door opened fully and Sandor saw not his bride before him, but rather his hostess. "Lady Myranda," Sandor said, his voice low and embarrassed. "I beg your pardon."

Myranda's eyebrows shot up, intrigued. "Good evening, Ser," she said impishly, ignoring his earlier insistence that he was less a knight than Myranda herself. "I've come to invite you to dine with Lady Sansa and myself. The cooks have prepared a luscious mutton stew and a root vegetable hash with poached eggs, and of course we've pulled several selections from our wine cellar."

The food sounded good enough, but it was the thought of the wine that made Sandor's mouth water. He had gone long enough now without wine that the shaking in his hands and feet had returned, just like in the dungeons on Tarth.

He followed Myranda Royce down a snaking corridor to the dining room. She chattered the whole way, with Sandor occasionally acknowledging her gossip with a gruff nod or a monosyllablic response. In reality, he heard virtually nothing that Myranda said. Finally, they were in the dining room, and Sandor saw Sansa already seated at the table. She wore a raw silk gown the color of lilacs, and her copper hair had been bound into a loose braid thrown over one shoulder. She smiled meekly at Sandor, and he flicked the corners of his mouth up in reply.

He sat when invited to do so, and when a pewter cup of wine was poured for him, he raised it in the direction of the two young women seated across from him.

"My most heartfelt thanks, my lady, for your hospitality. It's a desperate man indeed who savors a bath as much as I've done today, and a pitiful man indeed who is so grateful for a cup of wine."

Myranda and Sansa grinned at him and raised their own cups. Myranda took a deep draught of wine, her chestnut eyes shining wryly at Sandor over the rim of her cup. The dining room here was far smaller than the one at Griffin's Roost had been, and so the fire dancing behind the two girls seemed far more effective in filling the space with light and warmth. It was also rather effective at planting a pang of fear inside Sandor's chest. He drank deeply from his wine cup, staring into the flames behind the young women.

There was a silence then, as Myranda and Sansa ate their mutton and carrots and shallots and eggs. Eventually, Myranda moved her face enough to catch Sandor's gaze.

"Are you seeing our future in the fire, Ser?" Myranda giggled. "I had thought you to be hungry. Shall I come over to your side and feed you myself?"

Through her teasing, Sandor sensed flirtation. He glanced at Sansa, and who smiled peacefully at Myranda's jape and serenely popped a bite of mutton between her lips. Sandor suspected that Sansa was oblivious to Myranda's flirting, and he realized that he'd not made it obvious that Sansa was his wife.

Well, how could Myranda Royce be blamed for not knowing that fact? Sandor and Sansa had approached the castle on separate horses. There had been no banns read for them in the septs to announce impending nuptials.

Sandor felt a stirring in his lap when he thought back to the night in the rain, when Sansa had promised him she would be his forever. He sighed a little into his cup of wine, remembering how Sansa had shouted over the howl of the rain, her wedding vows heard by Sandor and the storming sky, by the black earth and the sacred trees and the Old gods.

Myranda was still smirking at Sandor across the table. For whatever reason, she wanted The Hound. That much was obvious. Perhaps she thought she would woo him and bed him later. In another, earlier life, Sandor would have taken the buxom girl up upon her flirtations. Now, though, he found her giggle shrill and her grin unnerving. It was only Sansa that he wanted.

He cleared his throat and stared at Sansa as he spoke to Myranda. "If I'm staring blankly tonight, Lady Myranda, it is because my wife and I are so thoroughly exhausted from our travels."

There was a split second of silence, during which Sansa blushed and looked surprised at Sandor's admission. Myranda's wide brown eyes flicked back and forth between Sansa and Sandor. Though she grinned wickedly, there was no hiding the disappointment in her gaze

"Your wife!" she exclaimed breathlessly, "My most sincere apologies for the lack of congratulations! I had not heard..."

Sansa chewed her bottom lip. "You are the first to know, Lady Myranda," she said timidly. "My husband and I were wed in the sight of the Old gods, beneath a weirwood tree, on our way from the Stormlands."

While fucking each other passionately, Sandor specified in his mind. He and Sansa shared a secretive smile at the withheld details.

Myranda's eyebrows flew up and she pressed her palms flat upon the table. "The Lady Sansa Stark and the Hound, secretly married beneath a tree? Why, it's positively charming! Delightful! The bards will sing of it for ages."

Sansa smiled weakly, then set back to eating her mutton. Sandor saw Myranda Royce gulp heavily. The poor girl had actually concealed her disappointment skillfully, Sandor thought. He could scarcely tell that her bottom lip pouted, or that her brown eyes glinted with sadness. He contemplated that Myranda must be terribly lonely as the guardian of the castle.

Later, Sandor stripped off his tunic in the bedchamber he was to share with Sansa. She had not yet undressed, and so Sandor approached her and began to unlace her gown. He wanted a proper rutting tonight. He had every intention of throwing Sansa roughly on the mattress and plunging into her quim from behind her. He was going to make her call his name and cry from the pleasure... the very instant he managed to strip her borrowed dress from her.

But Sansa placed a small hand gently upon Sandor's and murmured,

"I've just realized something." There was a sadness in her voice, and a twinge of something else... fear? Alarm? Uncertainty?

"Whatever it is, little bird, I'm sure it's nothing that can't be fixed by me burying myself inside of you. Off with this damnable dress."

He moved his hands upon the ties again, and once more she gripped his fingers to make him stop.

"It's my moon's blood," Sansa muttered, turning away from him. Sandor pursed his lips and furrowed his brow, concerned by her embarrassment. She was his wife now; there were to be no taboos between them.

"If you are bleeding, little bird, I won't lay a finger upon you. I'm not that much a brute."

Then he saw Sansa squeeze her eyes tightly shut, and before Sandor knew what was happening, she had burrowed her face against his sternum and was sobbing.

"What in the seven hells is wrong with you?" Sandor demanded, feeling his eyes grow wide with surprise at her abrupt disintegration. He stroked her back, trying to overcome his confusion enough to comfort his crying wife. He realized how irritable he'd sounded, and he regretted his tone when Sansa sobbed harder.

"I don't have my moon's blood," Sansa informed him, her voice cracking against his bare chest. "That's precisely it. That's what's wrong. I was due to bleed two weeks ago. I haven't bled... not since before we left King's Landing."

That had been seven weeks ago now, Sandor thought, his heart pounding with alarm. A month ago, he'd finished inside of her for the first time at Griffin's Roost. Could it be that she...

Sandor felt his head swimming as though he were exceptionally drunk, and he heard his voice rasp dryly,

"Are you with child, little bird?"

She stared up at him, her bright wide eyes filled with nothing but fear. She gulped and nodded and whispered, "I believe that I am."

Sandor steeled his jaw. He had no idea whether to laugh or to cry, to embrace Sansa and tell her that he loved her, or to go find a maester and ask for a potion. He wanted to be glad that she carried his child, but there was still a bounty on both their heads. Joffrey wanted them dead, and he would take their child, too, if he got the chance.

Sandor suddenly realized how important it was for them to find Robb and Catelyn Stark. He ground his teeth determinedly and said to Sansa,

"You'll need to be strong, little bird. That's a Clegane inside of you. You'll be needing your strength."

Notes: Again, I apologize for any typos... this was once more frantically typed on a smartphone over an hour in the car. LOL. I didn't get much feedback yet on the wedding chapter, so I'm wondering if I should scrap and rewrite it? I don't want these chapters to be illegibly bad, even if they are typed into a tiny phone screen with very sore thumbs. Haha. Anyway, any feedback at all would be extraordinarily appreciated. Thank you for reading this far! The story is about 1/2 done at this point.


	20. Chapter 20

Sansa lay awake in the middle of the night, beside Sandor as his wife in a comfortable bed for the very first time. She was unable to sleep, her mind wracked with the notion that his child grew in her womb. As the night wore on, she tried to imagine how on Earth she would be able to raise their child in a world where they were both wanted for treason, and she became more upset about it with each passing moment.

Some time shortly before the sun rose, she began to feel a dull ache in her lower abdomen. Sansa had only had her womanly cycles for a short while now, but she knew what monthly cramping felt like. She furrowed her brow and pressed her palm to her stomach as her muscles knotted themselves painfully. She groaned a bit, and then she felt a rush of dampness between her legs. Sansa felt her eyes go wide with panic, and with a pang of fear, she let her trembling fingers trail down over her chest and abdomen. They gently pulled up the hem of her nightshirt and felt between her legs. It was sticky and warm there, and Sansa threw back the blankets. In the gray first light of dawn coming through the window, she could see it - her moonblood, staining the sheets, leaking forth from her body relentlessly.

"Sandor," she whispered helplessly, her voice hoarse and sad. Beside her, he grunted but did not wake, and she said his name again, a bit more insistently. Finally, he rolled over and cracked his eyes.

His voice thick with sleep, he asked, "What's the matter, little bird?"

But then his pale eyes trailed down to see the dark patch upon the sheets, and he sat bolt upright. His huge fists rubbed at his eye sockets, and he sighed heavily. "I'll get you some clean cloth," he said, and Sansa marveled at the calm in his groggy voice. Did he not realize that there was no child now, that she was bleeding?

"I'm not carrying your son," she noted, watching as he rose from the bed and pulled a linen shirt onto his bare chest. Her own voice cracked as the obvious truth of the situation escaped her lips.

"Aye," he nodded. "I can see that. I'd guess that since you're young, you simply skipped a month with your flowering, is all. We'll want to be more careful, anyway… now is not the best time to be going around having children." He raked his fingers through his dark hair, quietly opened the door to the hallway, and was gone.

Sansa felt her cheeks flush. He was right; she knew he was right, but she could scarcely cope with his placid serenity and his kindness. It was too much. She sat there, bleeding on the bed and staring at the remnants of the previous night's fire in the fireplace, her lips pursed, waiting for him to come back. She could have started cleaning up after herself, but she was too shocked to move. Just minutes before, she'd thought she would be giving birth to Sandor's child. Now she knew there would be no baby.

When Sandor did come back, it was nearly twenty minutes later. He was toting a bucket of water and a stack of cloth.

"Come here, little bird," he said gently, and Sansa wordlessly slipped off of the bed. This was not the first time he'd seen her flowering; he'd been there when she'd first bled in King's Landing and had tried to hide the evidence with Shae, terrified that Joffrey would come and rape her. She had no shame now in front of Sandor, not when it came to this.

Sandor handed Sansa a clean shift and several linen cloths, one of which he dunked into the bucket of water. He said nothing, but flashed her a miniscule and kind smile.

"Thank you," Sansa whispered, taking the cloths and plodding over to the other side of the room. As she wiped the blood from her thighs and stripped the soiled nightshirt from her body, she saw Sandor was peeling the ruined sheets from the bed and watched him put them into the fireplace. They caught on an ember and flared, and she saw the fear cross his face as the sheets began burning. He turned away, a dull look of dread in his gray eyes. Sansa gulped. Sandor glanced at her and flicked a corner of his mouth up in a hollow smile, devoid of mirth. Sansa sighed and put on the clean shift, along with clean small clothes, into which she stuffed several layers of rags.

"I'm sorry," she murmured to Sandor once she'd finished putting herself to rights.

"What for?" Sandor demanded, and now when he smiled he looked truly amused. He stalked across the room to her and laid his heavy arms upon her shoulders.

"I thought… I thought I was with child. But you're right. I probably simply skipped a month. I've only been flowered for a short time, and it's all rather unpredictable still… I'm sorry. I told you I was going to bear you a child. I was untruthful." Her eyes welled up with tears, which she angrily swiped away with the roughspun sleeve of her shift. Sandor guffawed then, which made Sansa frown with embarrassment. "Why are you laughing at me?"

"Little bird," he smiled crookedly, "You didn't lie. You were mistaken. I know liars. I'm intimately acquainted with a good many liars. You are a terrible liar, and you weren't lying about this. You were misled by the calendar, and there's no shame or sin in that. Think no more of this… it's better this way. I promise. Someday you'll bear me sons. And daughters. Striking handsome sons and pretty little daughters. But it doesn't have to be right now, or tomorrow, or the day after that, and it's probably best that it isn't for a good long while, at least until that cunt Joffrey's off of our tails. Now, come on. It's time for my little bird to eat her breakfast."

* * *

Sansa had no appetite that morning, and she sighed as she picked at her poached eggs. One broke onto her bread as she poked at it, spilling its yolk ungracefully, and Sansa furrowed her brow at the mess as the yolk ran off of her trencher and oozed onto the table.

"Lady Sansa!"

Sansa startled and glanced up at the boy of perhaps twelve who had come dashing into the dining room. Sandor glared at the boy, or, more specifically, at the roll of parchment the boy was holding out toward Sansa as he ran across the room.

"A raven, my lady, just sent down from the Eyrie. It's marked as 'Urgent,' my lady," the boy panted. He thrust the parchment out to Sansa and bowed reverently.

Myranda Royce thrust her dark eyebrows upward seriously and murmured, "Thank you, Haphew."

She held out a small silver coin, which the boy gratefully accepted before asking, "Shall there be any reply, my lady?"

Sansa felt her heart pounding as she whispered, "I don't know yet."

She looked down at the wax seal on the parchment. It was the mark of Arryn, that of her aunt's late husband. She tore gently at the seal and unfurled the parchment. There, in handwriting which appeared to have been hastily and frantically scrawn, were words which made Sansa's breath hitch in her throat.

_Niece,_

_I pray this raven finds you alive. There are riders sent by the Crown on their way to the Gates of the Moon at this very moment; I have just received a raven with the news. They are no more than three days' ride away. Lord Varys has his spies everywhere, and the Vale is no exception. Even if you started up the goat road now, you would likely not outrun them, and I can not allow you to put the Eyrie under siege, in any case._

_My informant has told me that the King's riders bear a writ warranting the arrest of both you and Sandor Clegane for the crimes of high treason against the Crown, to be returned to King's Landing to face torture and execution._

_Flee to Riverrun. You will be safe there, for the time being. Ride as fast as your horses will take you._

_May the gods be with you, child._

_Lysa Arryn, Lady Regent of the Vale of Arryn_

Sansa felt her lips go dry. There were riders coming, and they would take her (and her husband) back to King's Landing, where they would do terrible things to her body before murdering her. Just like they did to her father. Sansa's breath shook in her chest and her eyes burned like fire.

"What does it say, Sansa?" she heard Sandor ask from somewhere far away, and Sansa continued staring at the parchment as she heard herself answer,

"It says that His Grace has sent men to come capture us, and take us back so that Ser Ilyn Payne may torture and kill us. They will be here in no more than three days, and we must leave for Riverrun at once. My Aunt Lysa will not permit us at the Eyrie. That is what is says."

Her voice was eerily calm, even to her own ears, almost monotone and dead in quality. That was how Sansa felt - like she'd already resigned herself to death.

She rolled up the scroll and tossed it carelessly into the fire, raising her eyes to stare blankly at Sandor. He nodded gravely back at her, acknowledging silently that they would probably die at the end of all of this madness, though they would go out fighting.

Out of her peripheral vision, Sansa saw Myranda Royce glance frantically back and forth between the two of them, her thin hands grasping fearfully at the arms of her chair.

"We must prepare your horses at once!" she exclaimed. She turned quickly to the messenger boy beside her. "Haphew, run to the stables and have the horses readied. Oh, and go to the kitchens and have them prepare wineskins. And breads and dried meats! And go to the coffers and get a few bags of coins for them. Anything they might need. Run, Haphew! Make haste! Time is of the essence!"

For as frantic as Myranda Royce was, Sansa and Sandor were completely calm, staring silently at one another across the table as though the girl's cacophonous orders were the pleasant chirping of birds.

"What are you waiting for?" Myranda demanded finally, clasping her hands together anxiously. "Sansa, go and get yourself dressed into riding clothes! You must leave at once!"

"We're not going to Riverrun, Myranda." Sansa shook her head serenely. She flashed a resigned little smile at Sandor, and he nodded back once, tapping his thick fingers upon the wooden table.

Myranda looked from one of them to the other, shocked. "What?" she whispered, her shocked voice barely audible. "If you stay here, the riders shall cart you off to King's Landing to be executed."

"They shall try," Sandor acknowledged, "But neither Sansa's nor my head will be on a stake any time soon."

"And how, precisely, do you propose to save yourselves?" Myranda asked, her voice shrill with disbelief.

Sandor met her skeptical eyes with his own gray ones. "I've killed many men before. I killed my own brother, when no one else could do it. That little shit Joffrey shouldn't be too hard. After he's gone, it'll all fall into place."

Notes: Thanks again for your readership and reviews. I had surgery as a result of my ectopic pregnancy (as if having one complicated pregnancy wasn't enough...) but am doing wonderfully now. I am so grateful for all the support. Writing is incredibly cathartic for me, and I am so grateful for the feedback. Thank you from the bottom of my heart!


	21. Chapter 21

Petyr Baelish sat in the foreroom of one of his many brothels, staring blankly out the window. In the hot, sunny streets of King's Landing, the smallfolk went about their daily drudgery without complaint, seeming to have recovered from the Battle of the Blackwater nicely. The stone walls and ramparts of the city still bore scars of the battle, and many had been killed, but the bakers still called out that they had bread for sale, and down on the wharf, the fishmongers were pulling their little boats in with their catches.

Peter's gray-green eyes squeezed shut, closing out the scene of the city, and his thin fingers traced over the ink writing on the parchment that sat upon his lap. He'd must have read it ten times already, and he had nearly memorized the words upon the scroll. Still, he did not know what to make of the letter. For the first time in a long while, Petyr Baelish did not know what to do.

Petyr,

That's how the letter began. So few ravens came to him addressed so informally, and that's how he knew at once that it had come from her - from Lysa. He had continued reading with a stone in his gut.

Sansa is in grave danger. You know this. You are the only one who can save her now. She will flee, or perhaps not, for she is with the Hound, and you know him to be a stubborn beast. They will bring her to the King and he will try to take her head. She is my kin. She is Catelyn's child. I know you bear me no love, and that matters not now. But if ever you loved my sister, do what you will to save Sansa. I beg it of you. You are her only hope.

Sansa Stark. In one sense, she was a constant reminder that Catelyn Tully had gone and lived a life without Petyr… she had married Ned Stark and borne him five children and had never loved Petyr. Sansa was proof of that. But Petyr had always loved Catelyn, and Sansa was her daughter. Did Petyr now potentially sacrifice his own life for the girl?

He glanced at the little table before him, where fragrant incense coals were burning. Touching the corner of the parchment to the hot coals, he waited until the scroll began to curl and blacken and disintegrate, and then he returned his gray-green eyes to the window.

In just a few days, the king's riders would be here with them. Then Petyr would prove to Catelyn just how much he loved her, once and for all.

"You won't be able to protect me from all of them," Sansa whispered into the darkness, twining her little fingers into the hair on Sandor's chest and brushing her lips against his sternum. They lay in the bed in their guest room at The Gates of the Moon, both quite unable to sleep. "They will lock you in the prisoner cart as we go through the Mountains of the Moon and they will rape me."

"I've kept men from doing that to you before," Sandor muttered, kissing her hair, damp from a bath, "and I'll do it again. I'll not let anyone defile you, little bird."

"You say that." Sansa turned her sapphire eyes up toward him and frowned. "You say that like you could slay a thousand men by yourself. But you can't. You're just one, and there are many of them, and they will take me and beat me and put themselves in me and then chop my head off. And they will make you watch. We should have gone to Riverrun, after all, I think."

Sandor furrowed his thick eyebrows. "Riverrun is a three week ride from here, even at a brisk pace," he reminded her. "Even if we got there, they would chase us. Then what? Does a fat lot of good to be on the run forever, eh? Best we take them head on and either kill them ourselves or be killed. It is bound to go one of those two ways. I shall not spend years fleeing in fear. I am no mouse, and neither are you, Sansa Stark of Winterfell."

Sansa blinked a few times, feeling the warmth of the flickering fire in the hearth on her face. She just wanted to shut her eyes and spirit them away, to a place that didn't really exist. Winterfell in another time and place, might be. She could see it, in her mind. They would walk through the glass gardens, which would be warm as the most beautiful summer's day, gazing through the clear panes at the peacefully falling snow outside. The juxtaposition, Sansa knew, would be lovely, and it was one that could only be found at Winterfell. She felt her eyes sear at the thought, and she shut them more tightly. She would wear a Northern dress, one rather like her mother used to wear, not the raw silk things she'd worn in King's Landing in cheap imitation of Queen Cersei. Perhaps she would not look as frumpy as Catelyn Stark had done, but Sansa would not dress like Joffrey's mother anymore, either. And as she walked through the glass gardens holding Sandor's hand, she would be free, finally.

She sighed, more heavily than she'd intended to do, and felt her fingers clutching desperately at Sandor's chest. The riders might come at any moment; they really had no idea how far away the King's men were. And once the riders came, Sansa might never touch Sandor again. She needed to savor every instant with him, for every second with him might be her very last. How incredibly grateful she was that she was not with his child, after all. And then, she thought, how very disappointed that she had such prolific bleeding that would make coupling with him so unsavory, for she thought she would like very much to experience that with him one final time.

Sansa felt a tear squeeze from her eye, hot and bitter, leaking onto the warm skin of Sandor's muscle. She felt his large hand rub across her back, between her shoulder blades, and felt him kiss her hair once more.

"I will not let them hurt you," he promised her again, though it sounded to Sansa very much as though he was trying to convince himself. "I will keep you safe."

"Please," Sansa whispered, "until they come, just show me that you love me."

Sandor nodded gently and nudged her face up to his, enveloping her lips in a deep kiss. Sansa felt the heat in it, the urgency, and she moaned a bit into his mouth, pulling his tongue into a dance with her own. Sandor shifted so that he could pull Sansa more tightly against him and grasped her shoulders with his strong hands.

She snaked her hand beneath the blankets and under the waistband of his linen smallclothes, feeling his half-hard member twitch at her touch and stroking it gently with her lithe fingers. Sandor growled, from somewhere deep in his throat, sounding truly like an animal. He hardened almost immediately as Sansa let her hand slide along his length, lingering at his tip, and his lips faltered upon hers.

"Oh, little bird," he whispered, his low voice quivering, "How did you do it?"

Sansa grinned slyly, her fingertips dancing around his member with a preternatural expertise and grace. "Do what?" she teased.

"How did you make me love you?" The Hound demanded, and he sounded sorrowful as he moved his mouth to Sansa's neck. Sansa gasped and tightened her fingers around his now-hard cock, moving her hand into a steady stroking rhythm.

"I don't know," she admitted, struggling to speak as Sandor lathed his rough tongue against her swan-like neck. His movements were crude and rough, but not painful, and they felt good to Sansa's body. She tingled and ached everywhere, mostly in her bosom and between her legs. It didn't seem fair, for she had her moonblood and could do nothing about the insistent throbbing. She shut her eyes and gulped, trying to ignore the wonderful agony Sandor was inflicting upon her. He loved her. That was all that mattered now.

"I should have died that night," Sandor rasped against her neck, and Sansa knew he was talking about the Blackwater, when all of King's Landing was on fire and they'd fled together. He guided her free hand up to the burned flesh of his cheek as if to prove to himself that someone in the world were willing to touch him there, so Sansa stroked him gently there in tandem with his member. "I should have been cut through with a Baratheon blade, or burned to death like so many other men that night. I killed so many men that night, but I could have killed more. I was distracted. All I could think of was you up in the Keep. I thought, if we lose the city, they will get my little bird. She'll be crying for help and I'll be a charred corpse and I won't hear her. And for all the times I'd told myself I loved you, that's when I realized it was true… that I couldn't run away from you anymore. I had to run away with you."

Sansa felt her hand still upon him, felt him throbbing against her palm, felt wetness upon his cheek on her other hand. She chewed her lip. "Oh," was all she could bring herself to say.

She pulsed her hand against him, suddenly determined to bring him to release, and felt the rivulets of scarred flesh beneath her other hand. It was a strange contrast: the smooth, undulating hardness of his cock in one palm diverged oddly from the disfigured and warped burns upon his cheek and neck.

"Ungh," she heard him moan, and then there was a bit of pearly fluid at his tip that allowed her hand to move more freely up and down his shaft. Sansa watched in wide-eyed wonder as Sandor shifted anxiously against the pillows, his enormous body wracked with pleasure as he tensed and gripped the sheets. His breath was shallow and urgent, his broad chest heaving quickly as he began to pant. His gray eyes met Sansa's in the glow of the firelight and he crooked the corner of his mouth at her. "I wish I could rut you properly right now," he assured her.

Sansa smiled back sadly. "You shouldn't say it like that," she said modestly. "If you love me, you should say it nicely." She continued to move her hand on him, now swirling it over the silky tip, relishing the feel of the bud of moisture there and the insistent throbbing that told her Sandor was climbing the peak of his bliss. She felt her lips part for want of him as she felt his pulse through the skin of her palm, wishing more than anything that he was inside of her. She swallowed heavily and shut her eyes. "You should say, 'My sweetling, I would gladly make love to you now if I could. I would hold you and whisper sweet nothings in your ear and gently move with you all night long.' That is what you should say."

She was jarred by the sound of The Hound's uproarious laughter. Sansa's blue eyes flew open and she glared at Sandor angrily, her hand slowing and then ceasing its movement altogether upon him. "What is so funny?" she demanded.

"Don't stop, little bird," he insisted, biting his lip to calm his laughter. He put his enormous hand on Sansa's to urge her hand back into motion, and then he dug his head back into the pillow as he murmured with a wry grin, "Does any of that sound like anything a dog like me would ever say? Even to you? 'Sweetling?' Would I ever 'whisper sweet nothings' or admit that that was what I was doing? I am no true knight, little bird, and I never will be. No. I love you, and that's true enough." He tipped his head up to look at her with a piercing pale stare that made Sansa shiver. "But when I take you, I'll rut you properly."

There was something about the growl in his voice that made Sansa's stomach roil with desire. Her heart raced and he she struggled to steady her breath, closing her lips so that the shuddering air that came through her nose was not so noticeably wanton.

He must have sensed her acute arousal, for Sandor suddenly sat upright and put his large hands on Sansa's shoulders. He pushed her, more mildly than she would have thought him capable of doing, back onto the bed so that she was lying down and looking up at him. He positioned himself over her, hovering powerfully and heavily above her body. Sansa was suddenly more excited than she ever recalled being, for having him above her like this made her feel at once vulnerable and protected, and it was a powerfully seductive feeling. His masculine aroma and the heat of his body overwhelmed her, and Sansa wanted to pull him into her. Her eyes went wide, and she whispered confusedly, "I can't… I have…"

"I know, little bird."

For all his talk about not being humane, Sandor was very gentle indeed as he leaned down and placed a soft kiss upon Sansa's pillowy lips. His were so rough, Sansa noticed distantly, damaged and coarsened by decades of a hard life. But she very much liked the feel of them upon her own, and when he pulled away, she reached up and took his face in her hands and pulled him back, beseeching him for another kiss. He obliged, making this one much longer and deeper. He sighed into her mouth, and Sansa liked the feel of that, too - of the warm breath from his nose and of the scratch of his beard as his face angled against hers.

Finally, she let him pull away, and only then did she realize that one of his enormous hands was resting upon her chest. He palmed her bosom through the thin material of her nightshift. Her breasts were sensitive this time of the month, and it was not entirely a pleasant sensation. At the feel of his touch, Sansa, feeling betrayed by her own body, furrowed her eyebrows in frustration and frowned. Sandor immediately removed his hand but said nothing, moving his hand instead to brush his knuckles against her cheekbone.

He was no monster, Sansa decided. Not with her. He thought he was a monster. Might be he even wanted to be one. It was even possible that he was, in fact, a true beast with every other person in the world, except for her. But with Sansa, with his little bird, he was just a man. Just a very good man.

She could feel him grinding his member, still hard, against her thigh, and she wanted nothing more in all the world than for him to drive himself into her and pound away until he emptied his seed and collapsed atop her. She knew it was taking enormous self-control for him not to do so. And, really, aside from social taboo, discomfort, and the practicalities of a mess, there was no real reason why he couldn't. She was, after all, his wife. But he was showing great restraint, and he ground himself against her skin as one hand stroked her face and the other held fast to her shoulder.

Sansa stared at his face as he moved. She could tell he wasn't sure whether or not he should try to give her any pleasure. He'd tried touching her breast, and Sansa had been too sensitive. Though she was aroused, Sansa thought that today she would get little pleasure from firm caresses. It angered her, for she desperately wanted him. The blessings of femininity are also a woman's greatest curse, Sansa thought ruefully.

Sandor surprised Sansa then, as he hoisted himself up onto his haunches and clutched his member in his hand. He stroked himself, not furiously, but at a measured and firm pace. His eyes were heavy-lidded but watched Sansa intently. His tongue peeked out to lick his bottom lip, and he let out a low moan from the back of his throat. Sansa was enthralled, moving her eyes from his face down his bare, heaving torso to where his hard cock jutted out from his loosened smallclothes. There, his hand clutched it and pulsed evenly, focusing on the engorged tip. She could see his whole body tensing, the muscles in his thighs clenching tighter by the moment, and then his hand slowed and pulled to the bottom of his shaft. Sansa felt her eyes widen with amazement. She flicked her gaze momentarily up to Sandor's face. His eyes were shut serenely, as if in sleep, and his throat bobbed heavily with a mighty gulp.

Sansa frantically looked back down to his hand, and saw that his cock was pulsating forth his seed, and then she felt it landing upon her belly, seeping through her thin nightshift. There was something extremely erotic about that, about him spilling himself on her, and the fire between her legs became almost too much to bear. Sansa felt her jaw drop with astonishment, watching the milky fluid burst forth from her husband's body until he was entirely satisfied, hearing his growl rip forth from his throat as he came.

"Seven hells," Sansa heard herself whisper, though it was a phrase she rarely used.

Ten minutes later, they'd recovered, and Sansa had put on a new nightshift, and Sandor had cleaned himself up, and they'd managed to put the bed to rights. He stood beside it, swigging from a wineskin, and Sansa stared at him with a furrowed brow.

"What's the matter, little bird?" Sandor asked her, looked self-conscious.

Sansa shook her head. "I… did not realize the depth of my desire for you," she said awkwardly, "until I could not act upon it."

Sandor flashed her a knowing grin. "Now you know how I felt having to watch you be betrothed to His Fucking Grace. Watching him order his men to beat you. Thinking someday he'd take you into his bed and fuck you and put a son in you. All the while loving you. Sometimes desire - and love - are most evident when you can't do a damn thing about them."

Sansa nodded. She started to climb into bed, but then there was a noise outside the window that put a stab of fear into her heart. It was the sound of a ram's horn, blown to announce impending riders. The king's men had come to The Gates of the Moon.


	22. Chapter 22

Notes:

Little bit of warning: This chapter contains a LOT of violence... it's a bit dark! :-/

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Sandor Clegane watched a spider creep up the iron bar of the prison cart in which he was confined, fascinated by the way the creature moved its spindly little legs as it skittered up the bar. Once the spider reached the top of the cart, it began to weave a web, twittering its legs together to form a pearly trap for its prey that spanned the space between two bars. Sandor watched for a good ten minutes, and then he turned his eyes to Sansa, who was huddled into the far corner of the cart, fast asleep.

She had been allowed to keep a cloak when they'd been hauled roughly away from The Gates of the Moon. They'd not struggled, nor fought against the Lannister riders, all of whom Sandor knew well. Leading the party of royal escorts was Ser Addam Marbrand, sitting pompously upon his red courser. There was Lord Tytos Brax and Ser Steffon Swyft. There was Ser Boros Blount, and Sandor Clegane was surprised to see him there, for the last Sandor had heard of the man he'd been locked up by Cersei Lannister for surrendering too easily.

Sandor had not been happy to see Ser Boros Blount, for the man had been only too happy to engage in beatings of Sansa when instructed by King Joffrey, and the memories of seeing her struck by the fat slug of a man made him feel sick.

A soft rain began to fall upon the mountain trail, and over the next hour the prison wagon's movements became more rugged and jarring. Sandor watched as the spider struggled to maintain its fluid movements in the weaving of its beautiful web, and beside him, Sansa stirred under her heavy cloak, awoken by the jagged motion of the oxcart.

"It's just a bit of rain, little bird," Sandor murmured to her, flicking his eyes from the spider to Sansa's huddled form, and back to the glistening web. "Go back to your dreaming."

* * *

_"Clegane," Ser Addam had nodded with a mix of contempt and regret, when he'd come traipsing into the main hall of The Gates of the Moon. Sandor and Sansa were waiting for him, with Myranda Royce sitting tearfully upon a velvet chair in a hallway nearby. Sansa had slipped her hand into Sandor's, and he'd felt the trembling in her little fingers. He'd squeezed her hand reassuringly, and then released it, folding his own in front of his stomach confidently._

_"I'd wager this is not a meeting we ever expected to have, is it, Ser Addam?" Sandor asked, grinning crookedly. "Do you remember all those years ago, when you were a page at Casterly Rock, friendly with Jaime Lannister himself? You were less friendly with me when I came to the Lannister household, though I was the son of Lord. Don't worry, Ser Addam. I put no stock in nobility. But I do remember the way you stared at my face then, and the way you stare at me now. You thought I was a devil then, because of the way my face looked. And now you think they ought to go right on ahead and cut that face away from the rest of my body, because I've disrespected His Grace. I understand, Ser Addam. I do. You're a knight. Let's go."_

_With that, Sandor held out his fists, and Ser Addam wordlessly nodded to Ser Steffon Swyft, who stepped forward and wound a length of rope back and forth between Sandor's wrists. The bindings got tighter and tighter, and then Ser Steffon knotted them skillfully. Sandor watched out of the corner of his eye as Ser Boros Blount roughly bound Sansa's wrists, and he rasped,_

_"Be gentle with her, Boros."_

_But Ser Boros Blount only laughed, pulling harder upon Sansa's bindings until Sandor saw her flinch. Sandor felt a tang of acid in his throat as anger boiled up, and he turned to Ser Addam Marbrand, insisting,_

_"She is blameless. I took her away that night."_

_"What do you mean, Clegane?" Ser Addam demanded. "You kidnapped her?"_

_"She was already a prisoner. I wanted her," Sandor shrugged. He knew his face was stoic. He could lie to these men._

_Ser Addam coursed his tongue over his teeth skeptically and frowned. "We'll let His Grace the King decide whether she's a traitor or not. That's not my job nor my decision. I have orders: tie them up. Bring them to King's Landing. That's what I'm going to do."_

* * *

The songs sung around the fire that night were raucous and raunchy, the drink flowed freely, and by the time the moon was high in the dark sky, Sandor was quite certain that all of their royal escorts were entirely drunk.

They'd been kind enough to give him and Sansa a wineskin each, along with a single loaf of bread to share and a hunk of meat that smelled off. Sandor and Sansa had long ago finished their food and sat side-by-side in the prison cart in the darkness, staring at the Lannister men as they laughed loudly around the fire, about five yards away.

Sansa hugged her knees and sighed. She looked very pretty in the light of the fire, Sandor thought. Few things were made better by fire in his mind. Fire was evil, and made most situations much worse. But right now, the warm far-off glow made her hair look exquisitely crimson, and and her eyes shone sadly as they stared ahead. Sandor absorbed Sansa's image, worrying to himself that he had only so long to do so, and reached up to brush his knuckles against her cheekbone.

She did something to him, even here. She made him feel human, for the first time in as long as he could remember. His identity as The Hound and the burns on his face had made a fine mask behind which to hide, allowing him to disavow chivalry and nobility and, ultimately, humanity. He could kill and be barbaric because he wasn't just a man - he was The Hound. But for Sansa, he was Sandor Clegane, and he realized with a pang of alarm that he would do anything for her. He would endure pain, death, humiliation, fire… anything.

Sandor was jarred out of his reverie by the sound of the lock on the back of the prison wagon clanking open, and then the creak of the heavy wooden door as Ser Boros Blount heaved it open.

"Come on out, girl," Ser Boros growled, reaching roughly into the prison cart and grabbing at Sansa's ankle.

Sansa instantly recoiled into Sandor's arms, and he protectively wrapped himself around her.

"What do you mean by this, Boros?" he snarled at the fat, drunken mess of a man standing in the open back end of the cart. It was dark, but in the dim light of the fire, Sandor could see a cruel sneer upon Boros' broad face. He distantly heard the laughter of the other knights, drunk on wine and the promise of savage entertainment. Sandor felt a wave of nausea sweep over him and tightened his grip around Sansa's shoulders. "Leave her be. You had your fun with her when Joff told you to beat her about, didn't you? Wasn't that enough?"

Ser Boros guffawed. "I should have known, Clegane. You never partook in any of that, did you? It was good sport, but you just saw her as a good ripe cunt, didn't you? Did you get there before the rest of us, then? Let's find out, shall we?" He laughed and snatched once more at Sansa's leg, yanking brutally so that she was dragged toward the back of the cart.

Something in Sandor snapped then. He heard a loud ringing in his ears; he saw white before his eyes. He grasped Sansa's waist and hauled her back into the cart, heaving himself beyond her and hurtling himself out the back of the prison wagon. His enormous body collided with that of Ser Boros Blount, and the obese knight landed upon the ground with an ungraceful "oof."

Hearing and seeing the commotion, the other knights came racing over, but not before Sandor grabbed the dagger that Ser Boros Blount wore in a belt around his waist. Sandor clutched the blade and tore it roughly across Ser Boros's neck, staring at the other man's eyes as the life went out of them. He briefly considered Ser Boros' cruelty to Sansa, his gutlessness and malice, and he was very glad to see the blood gurgle forth from Ser Boros' opened throat.

Sandor didn't have time to think, though, for the other knights had come barreling over from the fire. They were drunk, enough that Sandor knew he had an advantage in tactics if not in numbers, and he reached down to take Ser Boros' sword off his body in his right hand and transferred the dagger to his other.

The others had drawn their swords, but Ser Addam Marbrand held a hand up to the other two knights.

"Now," he said, as calmly as he could manage, looking beyond Sandor to the lifeless form of Ser Boros Blount, "we have been instructed by His Grace to bring The Hound at the Stark bitch back to King's Landing. Alive. You're supposed to have your head cleaved off after a few days' torture, in front of a roaring crowd of smallfolk, Clegane. You aren't supposed to die here, on an empty mountain road, with nobody to enjoy it. Get back into the cart."

Sandor tipped his chin up. "Aye," he said, licking his lips defensively, "and what assurance have I that another one of you sons of bitches is not going to do what he tried -" Sandor thrust the bloody dagger blade toward the dead Boros Blount, "and try to rape my wife?"

He'd made a mistake, revealing that, for then Lord Tytos Brax cocked an eyebrow and said disbelievingly, "Your wife?"

"Sandor, you musn't…" he heard Sansa mewl from behind him, and Sandor abruptly knew he'd erred in his anger. He gulped, but nodded.

"Aye," he said again. "I took her for my own. And if any one of you tries to lay a hand on her, your throats will be as wide as good Ser Boros Blount's over there."

Lord Tytos Brax looked askance at the other two knights, then piped up, "Quite frankly, Clegane, your presence in King's Landing, particularly as a live prisoner, is secondary to that of Sansa Stark's. She is valuable as tradeable goods - her brother and mother want her back. There is, to be honest, no one who cares whether you are alive or dead. Your only value as live cargo is that your death will make for good entertainment for the masses."

Sandor felt his neck and face grow hot with rage as Tytos spoke, for the other man's calm arrogance as he threw about the fates of others made his blood boil.

"We could kill you and bring your head to King Joffrey," Lord Tytos continued, "and still collect a partial bounty on you. All he really cares about is Sansa Stark as a bargaining chip. Now that we know she's no maid, well… perhaps Ser Boros Blount had the right idea. This is a very lonely road." Lord Tytos gestured around himself, at the dark emptiness, and then turned back to Sandor, "So make your choice, Clegane. There are three of us and one of you. You can die and we will spend the rest of the journey to King's Landing ravaging your wife while your rotting head stands watch. Or, you can put down the blades and get back into the damned cart."

Sandor took a creeping step forward until his face was inches from Lord Tytos'.

"I know you wanted that bounty, Tytos. And that you wanted a taste of Sansa. I'm sure you'd enjoy them both. I'm sorry."

With that, he plunged the dagger into the side of Tytos' neck, severing the artery there and causing the knight's knees to buckle. Sandor yanked the blade from his neck and was sprayed with the other man's blood. As Tytos collapsed onto the road, Sandor whirled and faced the other two men, both of whom had raised their swords. Sandor raised Ser Boros' blade high into the air and felt the vibration in his air as it clashed with that of Ser Addam, and his left hand stabbed at Ser Steffon Swyft, making light contact with the other man's sword arm.

Ser Steffon swung again and missed, and Sandor once again crashed his own blade against Ser Addam's. He reached forward once more with his left hand, as fast and hard as he could, and it was as though time was slowed for him. Somewhere far away, Sansa was screaming. There was power in her scream, like fuel for him to keep fighting and to win, and Sandor's dagger was guided like magic to a vulnerable spot at the top of Ser Steffon's stomach, a place that would bleed like mad. His dagger landed deeply into the other man's abdomen, and blood bubbled forth from Ser Steffon's mouth so that Sandor knew he'd struck true. When Ser Steffon fell, his blade clattered onto the stony road and his dirty hands clutched fruitlessly at the blade lodged beneath his sternum.

As Sandor watched Ser Steffon die, his right arm slashed aimlessly, and he felt that his sword had cut across his opponent. He looked to his right to see Ser Addam Marbrand fall to his knees, wounded, but not mortally. There was a slash across his torso and the bicep of his sword arm, and the knight would be unable to further fight.

Sandor knew he'd defeated all the men sent by King Joffrey to bring him to justice, and he and Sansa could simply flee on horseback and leave Ser Addam Marbrand here to die. They could simply leave the other three corpses where they lay in the road, could leave the fire burning at the oxcart standing where it was. Someone, someday, would find it all.

But there was something distinctly unsatisfying about that.

Sandor glanced toward the prison cart as he stood over the injured Addam Marbrand, and he saw Sansa inside of it, clutching at the iron bars and staring wide-eyed at him with horror in her gaze. She'd just watched him kill in a frenzy of barbarity, and if he was hoping to see anything but fear and disgust, he was sorely disappointed.

Sandor frowned, knowing that he was soaked in blood and sweat and that his heart was racing with the exertion of combat. He normally relished this sort of thing, and he wasn't going to let something like Sansa Stark's girlish qualms detract from the experience.

He placed his boot upon Ser Addam Marband's back and pushed down, driving the other man into the dusty and rocky road. Ser Addam sputtered, clutching at his wounded abdomen. His copper hair fell in uncharacteristically scraggly knots around his face. Sandor pressed his sword against the back of Ser Addam's neck, watching as droplets of blood oozed onto the knight's skin.

"Clegane," Ser Addam panted, "I would never have raped her."

"I would never have let you," Sandor rasped, snarling down at the vanquished man he'd known for so long.

"I know," Ser Addam nodded. "But I am not your brother." His voice was weakened by his pain, and he pulled a bloodied hand away from his torso to support himself upon the road. "Let me ride from here. I will let you flee wherever you will. Just let me go find a maester for myself."

Sandor glanced up to Sansa. Her wide blue eyes stared blankly in the firelight, and Sandor could she was not crying. Some of the rage and fear he'd seen earlier had dissipated a bit, and she seemed to have retreated into herself. Sandor stared for a long moment, willing her to look at him, but she just watched the flames as though there was nothing wrong.

"Let me go, Clegane," Ser Addam said again, and Sandor pressed his blade harder against the man's neck.

"Can't do that," Sandor said calmly, and he tipped the sword until its sharp tip was squarely between Ser Addam's shoulder blades, at the base of his neck. Sandor pushed down hard, severing Ser Addam's spinal cord with a sickening crunch, and he knew that the knight died instantly.

Sandor wrenched out the sword he'd stolen from Ser Boros Blount but realized he much preferred Ser Addam's. He reached down and switched weapons. Then he sauntered over to the prison cart and gestured for Sansa to climb over to the open door. He hauled her out of the wagon and grasped her arm as he walked her over to the fire.

"We can't ride until morning," he pointed out, for the mountain road would be treacherous by starlight. She nodded, looking dumbstruck and numb. She clutched her cloak around her more tightly and stared again into the fire, and Sandor thought she was trying very hard to ignore the corpses of the men who had threatened to rape her, the men who had been sent to take her to be executed. "In the morning, we will ride for Gulltown. Lord Gerold Grafton is a loyal man of the Vale. He'll put us on a ship to Braavos."

"Braavos?" Sansa squeaked. Her eyes were wide with disbelief. "I've never been to Essos. I want to go home."

Sandor stared. "You can't go home, little bird. I'm sorry."

Sansa's eyes welled, but she nodded. "There's no one for me there, anyway," she whispered sadly.

"Sit here," Sandor instructed Sansa, gesturing to a boulder beside the fire.

Leaving her there, Sandor stood over the bodies of Lord Tytos Brax, Ser Steffon Swyft, and Ser Addam Marbrand. He glanced over to the man he had hated even more and decided he wanted to get rid of him first. Sandor stalked to the prison wagon, to the place where he'd cut the throat of the fat, ugly knight who'd followed every terrible order given to him by the boy-king.

He grunted and panted as he struggled to heave the corpulent body across the rocky road, over the brush and past the site of the camp fire. Sansa watched with macabre fascination as Sandor pushed the body the last few feet toward the edge of the cliff, where the side of the mountain dropped perilously down to the valley below. It must have been at least five hundred feet of a nearly vertical drop.

Sandor heard her little gasp as the body of Ser Boros Blount rolled inelegantly over the side of the cliff, flopping unceremoniously over the edge. Sandor remembered all the times he'd been forced to watch as Ser Boros had beaten his little bird into submission. He remembered the bruises on Sansa's body, covered by sleeves and skirts, put there with pleasure by the unworthy knight's vulgar fists.

The Hound felt his mouth curl up into a little smile of vengeance achieved as Ser Boros Blount tumbled and whirled and disappeared into the darkness.

Notes:

Whew! Thank you to all who commented on the last few chapters. Your feedback is truly, truly so very appreciated. :-)


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 24: Ministrations

Notes:

Um... this chapter got WAY longer than I had planned. And... um... way more smutty. I'm sorry. blushes

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Lord Varys walked through the Great Hall of the Red Keep with a preternatural poise, though inside his mind was screaming. King Joffrey was, at best, an irrational monarch, and, at worst, a tyrannical maniac. Everyone knew this, and to merely think it was to acknowledge truth, not to commit treason.

The news that had come to him weeks earlier from one of his birds had been, to put it mildly, troubling. An empty prison cart, with oxen nearly dead from thirst and hunger, had wandered into Lord Harroway's Town in the Riverlands. Curious smallfolk had tried to determine its origin, and had finally found the Lannister markings upon it. The knights who had been sent after The Hound and Sansa Stark had not been seen nor heard from, but there was word that they'd been at The Gates of the Moon.

More riders had been immediately dispatched to the Vale of Arryn. The riders, ravens reported, were on their way back to King's Landing with Lady Myranda Royce's head in a jeweled box, which they would present to Queen Cersei.

But today, there was even more disturbing news that he had to report to the King and, perhaps more dreadfully, his mother. Just this morning, a raven had arrived from Gulltown with news that a carrack called the Bulwark had departed for Braavos, and that upon the ship there had been a red-haired damsel who'd tried to hide herself beneath thick cloaks and scarves. She had been accompanied, it was said, by a hulking knight in hastily-made armor. Whispers around Gulltown, and even open conversation, declared that Sansa Stark and Sandor Clegane had sailed across the Narrow Sea. Smallfolk and Grafton alike scoffed that they should like to see the Lannisters lay hand upon "their Northern Lady" now.

Lord Varys had felt a shock of cold course through his veins upon reading the letter borne by the raven. He'd frowned, and then he'd risen to stride with feigned confidence across the Great Hall. There was very little that could be done, to be certain, and of course King Joffrey needed to be informed. But it was not to King Joffrey that Lord Varys went first. Instead, he traipsed through the Red Keep until he came to the chambers of Petyr Baelish, and then he raised his hand to knock upon the thick wooden door.

It creaked open, and Littlefinger smirked haughtily at the bald castrato over the threshold.

"Lord Varys," he said smoothly, inclining his head. "What might I do for you?"

"I have news, Lord Baelish," Varys pronounced carefully, "which I believe may be to our mutual interest to discuss."

Petyr Baelish's grin widened. "Do come inside," he beckoned with an unusual warmth. "I believe I know precisely what it is you are going to say. I hope I am right."

* * *

Sansa tried hard to focus on her reading, but the poetry was dull, and the noise above decks was deafening. The men had been drinking for hours and their sea shanties had grown more out of tune with every cask of wine they cracked open.

Sandor was up there, among the sailors, and Sansa knew he was downing wine faster than any of them, though she could picture him brooding in a corner instead of singing along with their bawdy shanties. He'd left her after sunset, for she was as quiet as she had been these past few weeks, and she knew herself to be poor company.

"Come up top and have a few cups of wine," he pressed. "the stars at sea are like nothing else in the world."

Sansa looked around the windowless cabin, bathed in the flickering light of a single hanging lantern, and shook her head morosely. "I don't think so," she sighed. "You go on."

Sandor had flicked his thick eyebrows skyward and shrugged. "I'm not like to pass up wine," he reminded her. "If you're asleep when I'm back, I shall see you in the morning."

And then he was gone.

That was how it had been between them, since that night on the mountain pass. During the ride to Gulltown, there had been times when hours on end would pass without a word being spoken. Sansa wasn't angry with him, but she couldn't help being a bit confused. The image in her mind of him slashing and hacking and dumping bodies over the side of the mountain was not something she could erase. Worst of all was the idea that that had been the true him - that, at his core, Sandor Clegane was a killer. It wasn't as though he'd denied it or pretended otherwise. On the contrary, for the majority of the time she'd known him, Sandor had insisted to Sansa that killing was his favorite thing in all the world. Sansa could not decide for herself if that was a reason to hate him, or something which she could accommodate.

Tonight, she was feeling rather hateful. The boisterousness overhead was making her reading quite impossible, and she was feeling gruff and grumpy. Part of the reason for her sour mood, Sansa was certain, was knowing that they were on a ship going the wrong way. Robb and her mother were in the Riverlands, and they were on a ship bound for Braavos. She might never, ever see any of them again. She might never step foot in Winterfell again. For what?

She should have stayed in the Red Keep the night of the Blackwater, Sansa told herself. She should have told Sandor to go away, that Robb would come for her and rescue her. And it might be he would have done so. Now where was she? She was upon some forsaken carrack in the Narrow Sea, swarming with drunkards and vibrating with the unpleasant sounds of their lecherous chants.

Somehow, over the next few hours, her poetry became so boring that she nodded off, her head lolling onto her forearm where she leaned upon a roughspun pillow. The gentle rolling of the carrack, the creaking of its wooden beams and the muffled crashing of waves… all were enough to overpower the carousing of the sailors overhead, which faded as the men apparently dispersed to their quarters, filled to their limits with wine and ready for sleep.

Sansa dreamed. She dreamed of home. She was standing in the godswood at Winterfell, and there was snow falling gently around her. No one else was there, and it was so quiet she could hear the sound of footsteps crunching, far away. Sansa turned, and there was a dark, huddled form moving toward her in the snow. Sansa waited, feeling the corners of her lips turn up slightly as she realized it was Old Nan. Finally, the shrouded, shriveled old crone reached Sansa, and her nearly-blind eyes stared up into Sansa's, her toothless smile bearing little happiness.

"I've come home, Nan," Sansa whispered to the old woman, and then Nan's smile disappeared. She shook her head.

"There's no home for you here, child," she murmured gently. Sansa furrowed her brow and prepared to speak, but Nan continued, "Home is him."

Sansa wanted to argue, but then she was jarred from her dream by the sound of the cabin door being flung open hastily, and she was plainly reminded that she was on board a ship, and not in the godswood at Winterfell. Sansa swallowed heavily and heaved herself up to a sitting position, feeling cramps and aches in her body from falling asleep in an unnatural position. She rubbed at her eyes and saw Sandor's hulking form sway as he shut the door loudly behind him.

Sansa frowned at the sight of him. He was a mess. His gray roughspun tunic had a dark red stain upon it where he'd spilled wine. His pale eyes glimmered with intoxication, and he smirked at Sansa in a way she'd never seen him do before. Perhaps once, she thought absently, that night on the serpentine steps when he'd caught her sneaking back from a meeting with Ser Dontos.

She'd wanted to go home then, too.

"Come here, little bird," Sandor rasped, and Sansa quelled the flare of arousal she couldn't help feeling in reaction to his voice. She shook her head.

"You're drunk. You need to sleep," she urged him. "I'll help you take off your boots."

She knew he had no hope of undressing himself properly right now; he was too far gone from the Dornish sours and the cheap imitations of Arbor golds that the men had spent hours swigging above decks. If Sandor were to try to take off his own clothes, Sansa reasoned, he'd wind up a tangled mess of limbs upon the floor of the cabin. That would make him angry. Sansa did not have the mental fortitude to deal with his anger right now.

The ship pitched and swayed, and if he were sober, Sandor would have been able to lean and compensate for the waves. But because he was completely drunk, he stumbled, and nearly fell. He laughed roughly, his voice a gravelly whisper, and he collapsed heavily to sit upon the narrow berth. Sansa arranged herself in front of him, sitting back upon her haunches, and pursed her lips. She made no comment about his inebriation, but wordlessly set to unclasping and yanking down his tall leather boots.

"Home is him," Old Nan had said in her dream, and Sansa thought perhaps she should listen to the woman. Home could be this little cabin, if Sansa willed it so. Sandor wasn't making it easy, the way he was humming drunkenly above her, the way he was raking his fingers through Sansa's hair as she stripped off his woolen stockings. She shouldn't want him, Sansa told herself. Not when he was like this. He was just being a lecherous old man right now, not the loving husband he'd promised her he'd be.

She looked up at him, hoping to see fatigue in his eyes. She wanted to see a sign that he would lie down and fall fast asleep and wake up with a pounding headache and a queasy stomach, swearing he'd never drink like that again. He would, of course, but he'd say he wouldn't. Sansa wanted to go to sleep, too, to lie silently beside him and dream of Winterfell again. She didn't have it in her, she thought, to be fondled and pawed at tonight by a man who smelled of blackberry wine and leather and salt.

But it wasn't just any man. It was him. And instead of seeing exhaustion in his eyes when she looked up, she saw agitation. He wanted her. That much was obvious.

"Did you hear us singing?" he asked, and Sansa couldn't keep a small sardonic smile from her lips.

"You with them?" she asked disbelievingly.

"I've learned a song or two through my years," Sandor nodded. "I demanded songs from you, didn't I, little bird? Yet you've never had one from me."

"No, I haven't." Sansa pulled herself to her feet and took a small step forward. She hung her head and swallowed heavily, lowering her eyes and staring at the wooden floor. Sandor parted his knees and reached up with a shaky hand to tip Sansa's chin up.

"Look at me, Sansa," he insisted. He smiled crookedly, and Sansa tried hard to smile back. She thought she probably wasn't doing a very good job of it. She knew she looked sad, though she didn't know why she felt that way. "I want you to watch me while I sing to you."

Sansa nodded. She felt Sandor's heavy hands clasp around her little waist and bring her closer to him, and she felt her body press flush against his. Her face was only inches from his as he stared up at her with his glassy, drunken gray eyes, but his gaze was intense. "I love you," he whispered hoarsely. "You know that."

It wasn't a question, but Sansa nodded nonetheless. She reached up to twine her fingers in his dark hair, which needed washing, she noticed. His hands had moved from her waist to her back, pressing firmly against the expanse there and almost covering her with his warmth.

"You are very melancholy today." Sandor chewed his lip. "I wish I could make you happy."

Sansa felt very guilty then, for she knew he had done absolutely everything he possibly could to keep her safe, to keep her alive, and to make her happy. There was nothing in the world she could have asked more of him, and here he was perseverating over her gloom.

"I should very much like it if you were to sing me a song," she pronounced, cloaking herself in the courtesies with which she had been raised.

Sandor smirked then, and his hands began to slowly wander around Sansa's torso as his voice began to sing. She struggled to keep her eyes open as she listened to him. His voice was oddly pleasing - gravelly and low, growling and undeniably masculine. As Sansa listened, arousal blossomed in her belly, and this time, she did not try to stave it off. Sandor did not take his gray eyes off of Sansa's all the while that he sang, and his heavy hands coursed around her body, lathing and stroking her smoothly.

_"For a man on his name day, there's nothing he needs,_

_But a woman beside him, and a flagon of mead._

_A good Dornish sour, a firewine perhaps,_

_And a comfortable bed in which to collapse._

_But when the man wakes, the name day is gone._

_The woman has fled with the coming of dawn._

_There's no one beside him in his poor rented bed,_

_Just a sickly reminder in his hungover head."_

Sandor laughed a bit as he finished his song, for he knew as well as Sansa that he himself would be feeling terribly the following day. Sansa couldn't help herself. She smiled broadly. The song had been amusing. But beyond that, she had had no idea that Sandor possessed such a capable singing voice. She would have to make him use it more often, she thought slyly.

"It's a good thing this woman shan't 'flee with the dawn,' isn't it?" she japed, edging forward to plant a soft kiss upon his lips. "And that it isn't your name day, so that you aren't disappointed when you feel properly awful in the morning."

She leaned her forehead against Sandor's and snaked her arms around his shoulders, and then she saw a glint in his gray eyes.

"But it _is _my name day today," he said, and Sansa laughed. Sandor smiled, and then he insisted, "It is, little bird."

Sansa stopped laughing, chewing upon her bottom lip. She could not determine whether he was teasing her or not. She sighed heavily and grinned. "I don't believe you," she decided.

"All right," Sandor shrugged, "But it is my name day. Why else would I have chosen that song?"

Sansa frowned. That was a good point. It was a very specific song. She'd never even heard it before. Might be he'd made it up. Sansa cupped the burned side of Sandor's face in her hand and stared into his drunken eyes. The glassy gaze he gave back to her was quite serious indeed.

"Speak truthfully to me, husband," she demanded. "Is it your name day today, or isn't it?"

"Yes." Sandor nodded firmly, once. "Though, being as you are my wife, and have been for some time, you probably ought to have known by now when my name day is."

His words were slurred, obfuscated by his drunkenness, but Sansa knew he was not lying. She felt terribly that she'd not realized all the day long that it had been his name day, and she'd not marked it at all. She'd refused to go above decks with him and take even a skin of wine, and she had been a grumpy wreck all the while.

"Oh!" she found herself exclaiming. "I'm very sorry! I… If I had known… why did you not tell me…?"

Sandor shrugged. "Why would I? It's just a name day. They happen every year."

Sansa was frantic with guilt. "And… and how old are you?" she found herself asking, though she suspected it was rude to do so. To his point, however, such a fact was undoubtedly something a wife should know about her husband.

Sandor licked his lips self-consciously. "Thirty years old," he admitted after a while, and Sansa thought absently that that was actually much younger than he looked, and much younger than he seemed. His scars, mental and physical, had aged him considerably.

"Oh," she said again, this time with a smile. "I had thought you to be much older than that."

Sandor furrowed his eyebrows and let his hands fall heavily onto Sansa's waist. "I'm not entirely certain that's a compliment," he frowned. He swayed again, and Sansa thought perhaps he was only now registering the last of the wine he'd drunk. She worried he would be sick, or pass out.

"Are you all right?" she asked gently, stroking softly at the ruined part of his face.

"I'm fine," Sandor insisted groggily. "Could use another cup of wine."

Sansa smirked and shook her head. "I don't think so. Why don't you lie down?"

She pushed him, very gently, so that he would move onto the berth. He obliged, though of course it was far too short for him. He lay upon his back and gazed wistfully up at Sansa, scratching absently at the hair that grew wild and scraggly over his chin and down his neck. He lazily tucked his hands behind his head.

"I would fuck you senseless right now if you took off that damnable dress, little bird," he announced, and Sansa frowned, for that was hardly a charming way to woo her into relations. He saw her frown and drunkenly corrected himself, "I… I mean, if you'll come lay beside me, I would be honored to fuck you."

Sansa erupted into a fit of giggles then, for the first time in so long that she'd forgotten what laughter really felt like. Sandor smiled widely, seeming very much to enjoy the sight of Sansa so amused.

"If I have told you once, I have told you a thousand times, Sansa Stark. I am no true knight," he slurred. "Now get those cursed smallclothes off and give me a present for my name day, will you?"

"Ask me nicely, please." Sansa assumed a haughty facial expression, turning her nose up at him.

Sandor heaved himself up into a sitting position again, and then he turned his torso to face Sansa beside him. She smiled wickedly as he seized her wrists in his enormous hands, just firmly enough to be sensual and not painful.

"No." He shook his head. "I will not ask nicely. It is my name day, and I have rescued your distressed little arse enough times that I believe I am due payment."

His words were rough, rasping and low, and his voice sent a shiver of arousal through Sansa's body. But the smirk on his face was good-natured, and as he licked his lips Sansa longed to kiss them. She leaned forward to do just that, but Sandor pulled himself back. He gave her a smug look and said,

"No, little bird. That's not what I want. I don't want your sweet little kisses and your kind words about love and affection and fondness. Not for my name day. I want to hear you moan, in a most unladylike fashion. I want to feel you come for me. I want to watch your pretty little cheeks go pink, and I do not mean the ones on your face."

Sansa's mouth dropped open in shock. She was very unaccustomed to hearing Sandor speak like this, but doing so sent a flood of moisture to the place between her legs. She shifted her weight, feeling friction as she did, and her eyelids fluttered shut and back open. Sandor tightened his grip on her wrists, just the tiniest bit, and his grin got a bit toothier.

"You like it when I say things like that, don't you?" he growled. "You're not a lady anymore, Sansa Stark. And tonight I'm going to show you why it is that they call me a Hound."

He heaved himself off of the bed, still swaying in his drunkenness, and pulled Sansa up with him. She loved the feel of his enormous hands pulling her by the wrists. She wasn't sure why, but she did. And then, suddenly, before she knew what was happening, her back was against the doorway and his hulking body was pressed snugly against hers. Sansa was tall for a girl her age, but Sandor was much taller. She looked up at him and felt completely overwhelmed by his size, his heat, his masculinity, and she shuddered with want.

Sandor's gray eyes never left hers as his breath came heavy and quick through his nostrils. He leaned against the door with one hand, pinning Sansa in place, and used the other to hike up the hem of her nightshirt. Sansa reached down to help him untie her smallclothes, but he batted her hand away gently.

"I want to do it," he muttered. "I want to take your clothes off myself. Your body is mine tonight, isn't it, little bird?"

That time, his words were a question. She could see it in the way he cocked his eyebrow - he wanted his permission to be rough with her. Sansa smiled, both to herself and to him. He'd never been like this with her before, and, gods be merciful, but she was enjoying it. Sansa nodded emphatically.

"I'm yours," she whispered. She wanted to tell him that she loved him, but it was as he had said. This was no time for sentiment. Sansa let her eyes flutter shut again, unable to meet Sandor's searing gaze. Her heart pounded in her chest so insistently that she thought it might explode, and she willed it to slow.

She felt her smallclothes pool around her ankles, and she kicked them away carelessly. She felt the pad of his calloused finger dip unceremoniously into her folds, and Sansa gasped quietly. She heard him grunt, and then let out a grumbling, low laugh.

"You are already as wet as the Stormlands, little bird," he whispered harshly into her ear, and Sansa swallowed heavily at the feel of his breath, hot upon her skin. She pushed her hips toward him, biting her bottom lip hard, and his fingers were pushed more firmly against her. She whimpered a bit and squirmed, and he laughed again. It was a warm, rumbling sound when he did, and it pulsated through Sansa's core. "You want more?" Sandor cocked his head. "Ask me for more, little bird. Ask me."

Sansa stared at him, her lips dry from desire. She licked them slowly, and she heard her voice crack as she whispered, "Please touch me… more."

He wanted her to beg. She could beg. They were both aroused by it; she could see that plainly as day. When she whispered her words, she felt more heat and moisture rush from her throat down through her chest and abdomen, straight to the throbbing spot between her legs. And Sandor groaned gruffly, driving his erection against her thigh and grinding it firmly in tandem with his stroking fingers.

"Do you feel me, Sansa?" he hissed into her ear. Sansa felt drunk, though she'd had no wine whatsoever. She was overwhelmed by the feel of him surrounding her, looming over her, his hair hanging into her face and his beard brushing her cheek as he whispered desperately into her ear. The slick coursing of his fingers as he traced the shape of her sex, exploring and caressing every fold with just the right amount of pressure. The way his cock crushed against her, thick and hard and perceptibly throbbing through the wool of his breeches. "Do you feel how hard you make me?"

His hand was relentless; his thumb circled around her clit while one and then a second long finger slipped into her and hooked against her entrance, massaging her expertly. Sansa reached out aimlessly and felt his free arm, strong and sure even in his drunkenness, guide her little hands up around his neck so that she would not fall. Sansa clenched her eyes shut and told herself to keep breathing.

She wanted to cry out. She wanted to moan, to gasp, to call his name. She could do none of it. She was stunned into complete silence by his ministrations, and all she could hear was the pounding of her heart. Sansa struggled to take a breath, to stave off the climax that was too close, too powerful in its approach, as her knees buckled and she surrendered completely to him.

"You're going to come, aren't you, little bird?" she heard him say, and he was somewhere very far away and very close all at the same time. "Please, Sansa… I want to feel it on my fingers. I want to feel your cunt clench and throb and pull me in."

She was so close… she'd never, ever felt pleasure like this, for the stimuli combined to smother and consume her in a way she'd never experienced. Sandor pressed himself even more tightly against her body, so that she was completely pinned against the doorway and could scarcely breathe even if she'd tried. His palm rubbed flat against her entrance as he ground rhythmically on her, and he huffed frantically into her ear as his erection dug into her thigh.

"Come for me, little bird," he pleaded, clutching desperately at her hair with his free hand.

Sansa lost it then. She felt warmth explode throughout her body, as though she very suddenly had an all-consuming fever. She could feel herself spasming irregularly around his fingers, and she heard him groan at the sensation. Sansa gasped for air as she came, and then Sandor shocked her by kissing her. His mouth attacked hers with a ferocity she'd not expected. His tongue searched her mouth for some kind of relief, coursing over the roof of her mouth madly. He dragged his teeth over her bottom lip as he pulled away, panting in an uncontrolled fashion.

Sansa managed to come to her senses enough to meet his gray eyes. Though still bleary from the wine, they were wild with arousal, the likes of which Sansa had never seen in him. She reached for the ties of his breeches and felt a slight dampness there from the fluids that had already formed at the tip of his cock. Sandor put a hand over Sansa's and shook his head firmly.

"I don't want to put a child in you, little bird," he rasped, looking self-conscious, but Sansa squared her jaw. She was his wife, and they would have relations with one another. Theirs would not be a chaste marriage. She quickly counted the days since her last moonblood and said hastily,

"Just, please, don't spill your seed inside of me." She felt her cheeks flush at those words, but her permission was all Sandor needed. In an instant, his member was free from its fabric confines, and there was a sequence of seconds wherein Sansa had no control whatsoever over what was happening. Sandor very quickly and seamlessly hoisted Sansa up, one leg at a time, until her ankles crossed behind his waist, and then he drove himself into her in one brutal thrust.

Sansa yelped, and in Sandor's eyes, she saw panic that he'd hurt her. There was a moment of intense burning, for he was large enough to stretch her and the suddenness of his entrance had been alarming. But after the heat dissipated, there was a low and thrumming pleasure, and a need inside Sansa for him to move within her. She found herself circling her hips on him, heard her voice moaning a bit, and she wordlessly begged him to continue.

He did, driving himself so deeply into her with each thrust that Sansa wondered how it was that her body was containing him. She buried her face between his neck and his shoulder and whimpered, mewling his name and raking her fingernails over his muscled, rough-hewn back.

"Little bird," she heard him rasp, and then she felt him slip out of her as she was returned to the rough, cold wood of the door. She looked down between them and watched his seed spill onto the grimy floor, random volleys of warm, creamy fluid. "Mmm… my little bird."

He mumbled the last three words as he finished, stumbling backwards to collapse upon the bed. His drunkenness returned in its fury now that he was spent and satisfied, and he crumpled down onto his side and shut his eyes with a trembling sigh.

Sansa stepped over the mess of sex and smallclothes and stood beside the bed, brushing her knuckles against his cheekbone the way he so often did to her.

"Happy name day," she whispered, but he was already asleep.

Notes:

If you get a quick moment, please be so kind as to leave a comment. Thank you SO MUCH for any feedback! :-)


	24. Chapter 24

Notes:

This chapter is... INTRIGUE. Haha! Enjoy... all feedback is super appreciated.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

"My advice, My Lord, would be to forget that Sansa Stark was ever in King's Landing, or that Gregor Clegane ever had a less-impressive younger brother."

Petyr Baelish rapped his fingers gently upon the thick wooden table, flicking his eyes from its grain up to those of Tywin Lannister. The elder man glared at Lord Varys, who had made the suggestion to abandon the search for Sansa Stark and Sandor Clegane. Tywin's gaze was piercing in its judgment of the eunuch.

"Some years ago, many of us, including you, Lord Varys, were complicit in letting a little girl cross the Narrow Sea. Now that little girl is trying to come back with dragons." Tywin sucked breath in through his thin nose and folded his hands upon the table. He leaned forward and narrowed his eyes as he reminded Varys, "Only, the last time, that little girl didn't have a very foolish, very angry brother with an army of rebelling Northerners. And, the last time, that little girl was not accompanied by a turncloak who'd been a sworn member of the Kingsguard."

"I agree, Lord Tywin," Petyr Baelish spoke up, his voice gravelly in the dark meeting chamber. Tywin stared at Baelish for a moment, and Baelish saw a flicker of distrust in the elder man's pale eyes. Baelish continued, "I believe that in pursuing Sansa Stark, there is an opportunity for peace."

Lord Varys looked suspicious, and a bit irritated, and he interrupted Baelish to ask, "Lord Baelish, how is it that executing the daughter of Lord Eddard Stark will bring peace to the Seven Kingdoms?"

Baelish smiled knowingly, haughtily, and flicked his eyes back to Tywin as he pronounced, "I believe we ought to present this as a rescue, not as a bounty. Spread the word that The Hound kidnapped a lady of the North from the Red Keep the night of the Blackwater. The scoundrel fled with her even after being pursued by Royal riders, whom he murdered in cold blood. He has taken her to Essos, to a fate unknown. The Crown shall do its part to return Robb Stark's sister to him, safe and sound, as a gesture of goodwill."

Varys continued to look skeptical, but Tywin suddenly looked as though he understood completely. He nodded solemnly and said slowly, "Robb Stark is hardly in a position to send a search party to Braavos. If we bring her back, we can still use her as a bargaining chip. She's still worth far more to us alive than dead."

Finally, Lord Varys looked swayed. He nodded. "If His Grace is seen presenting Sansa Stark to her brother, in good condition, her kidnapper duly executed, The Iron Throne will ingratiate itself into the hearts of the rebels. That is certain. But it must be on our terms. If we can get her to a meeting-place, we exchange her to the Starks, and Robb signs an issue of complete surrender. Pledges fealty to the Crown. Marries Sansa to a lord in the Westerlands. Once Stannis is stamped out once and for all, this foolish war will be over."

Petyr Baelish smirked to himself, knowing that his promise to Lysa Arryn had been fulfilled. "Yes," he affirmed, nodding to both Varys and Tywin. "So long as Robb Stark is called a King in the North, then Sansa is our very best chance."

* * *

Sansa's first impression of Braavos was that the place was very colorful. Of course, she'd thought that about King's Landing when she had first gone south, but the capital city of Westeros was nothing in comparison to the flamboyance of Braavos. Confusingly (to Sansa, at least), the allocation of color seemed completely backward from what it ought to be. The smallfolk went about in violent hues of purple and red and emerald and gold. Meanwhile, the nobility strutted about somberly in dark shades, their cloth draping majestically about them in black ripples.

It wasn't just the clothes, though. The entire city was a sensory confusion for Sansa. From the moment that the carrack had sailed beneath the granite legs of The Titan of Braavos, passing purple-hulled ships, Sansa had felt as though she'd been transported to another world entirely. She'd stepped, wobbly after so long at sea, off the carrack, and at once her ears had been assaulted with the fluid and foreign sound of Valyrian words she did not know.

It was disorienting, Sansa thought, to hear such a rabble of rapid speech, none of which she understood. As Sandor's heavy hand guided her shoulder through the crowded alleyways, she had let her eyes dart about, soaking in the sights and sounds and odd smells of strange cooking foods.

Was this home now? A shock of horror darted through Sansa's chest at the thought. She knew no one here, save Sandor. She knew nothing of their culture. She could not speak to them, these Braavosi strangers with their jewel-toned silks and their black capes. Sansa felt her eyes burn as she let herself be pulled through the streets by Sandor, who seemed to know where he was going. All around her, the strangers talked and laughed, but it was too loud, and seemed to be directed at Sansa, though none of them were looking at her. And there were cats, so many of them, mewling and rubbing piteously against Sansa's legs as she skirted away from them.

This could never be home. She might stay for the rest of her life, Sansa knew, but this place would never, ever be home.

She realized with a start that Sandor had ceased yanking upon her arm, and she raised her blue eyes to see a stone building rising before her. Its roof was peaked and high, like the others around it, and it was so narrow it looked as though it might get squeezed right out of existence by its neighbors.

"What is this place?" Sansa asked nervously, for she heard a strange, haunting singing from inside the window near them.

"It's called The Happy Port," Sandor answered carefully, chewing his lip. Sansa stared. He had said it as though it were supposed to mean something to her. "It's a brothel," Sandor clarified.

Sansa felt her eyebrows crumple in disgust and confusion. A brothel? Why on Earth would her own husband bring her to a foreign brothel?

"I'm to be a sellsword here," Sandor reminded her, letting his hand drift from her shoulder down to his hip, where yet another borrowed sword was sheathed. "I've got some coin to keep us a while, but until I earn some more, we'll be needing some good will."

Suddenly Sansa thought she understood. She blinked away horrified tears and ripped her eyes from him, staring up the stone walls of the brothel until she reached its peaked roof. "Do you mean for me to be a whore?" she whispered.

The clap of Sandor's thick hand upon her shoulder jarred Sansa; it was painful in its urgency and his grip was rough. She looked at him with horror, but in his gray eyes saw only concern.

"Never," he promised her, "would I allow another man to know you, Sansa. Did I, in the Vale? No. I slit their throats and I gouged out their bowels, and I tossed them over the mountainside."

"You needn't remind me," Sansa mumbled, trying to wrench her shoulder away from Sandor. He gripped harder, and Sansa winced.

"It's I who will be selling my services to the highest bidder," Sandor said solemnly. "The only reason we're here is because this is a good place to find men seeking sellswords. Might be they don't even know they need one. We aren't going to stay here. There's a small house… up in the city. It's been secured for us for the time being. We will stay our nights there. I just want to see what men are inside."

Sansa was confused. "Are you looking for someone in particular?" she asked.

Sandor waited a beat before answering. "There are wars here," he answered, "over lands that have been contested since before the Doom. It would be easy enough to find a captain in a place like this who's sailing men off to somewhere in The Disputed Lands."

Sansa was taken aback. She wanted to ask where she was supposed to stay if Sandor went off fighting in someone else's war. She wanted to know what would become of her in this life, as a dead traitor's refugee daughter, with a sellsword husband. She wanted to ask when she would go home.

Instead, she found herself silently following Sandor into the brothel.

Sansa imagined that, under the cover of darkness, The Happy Port would seem significantly more mystical and dingy. In the light of day, the lower level of The Happy Port looked relatively innocuous, the cracks of sunshine peeking around the shutters casting a bright light upon the space.

"Sandor Clegane!"

Sansa turned to the source of the words and felt her eyes widen as her gaze was drawn to the ample and prominently displayed bosom before her. Sansa forced her eyes up to see the face of a woman, pretty and simple in appearance, with a wide grin across her face. Sansa felt her insides roil with jealousy; this buxom woman had called her husband by name and now was grinning at him like a fool. Abruptly, Sansa realized that her primary concern ought to be that the woman knew exactly who Sandor was, and she suddenly had a feeling that Sandor had not been entirely honest with her outside the building.

"And… what have you brought me? She's pretty."

Sansa recoiled as the woman placed her hands on her hips and coursed her dark eyes around Sansa's cloaked frame. Reaching anxiously for Sandor's hand, Sansa felt him lace her fingers through his, and then she heard his gravelly laugh.

"She's mine and mine alone. I'm sorry, Merry."

Sansa flicked her eyes between the two of them and saw a deep recognition between Sandor and this woman. Sansa was suddenly humbled as an unfamiliar emotion overtook her jealousy. Sandor had had an entire life before she'd even been born. When had he come here, to Braavos, to this whorehouse? He'd known women here. Sansa could feel it in his hand - he wasn't trembling as he so often did. There was something about this place that made him feel comfortable. Sansa felt herself sigh a bit as she realized that it had been the company of other women, in some other time, to give Sandor comfort. Now, she knew, his mind was conjuring up happy memories of those women. Were they still here? Sansa glanced around furtively.

They weren't terribly pretty, the few that she saw languishing about. One was plying a man with wine, sprawled rather ungracefully across his lap and drawing her fingertips along his chiseled jaw. She was hirsute, and Sansa could see the faint shadow of hair above her lip. It was unseemly, Sansa thought, and not very womanly. She looked to another, who was rising from a far dark corner, pulling a man gently behind her. She briefly made eye contact with Sansa and smiled crookedly. Her cheeks flushed deeply as she did.

"You've not been here since… ah… well, you were a young man then!" The woman that Sandor had called Merry laughed deep in her belly and turned away from Sandor, to Sansa.

"I shan't ask your name," she said with a wicked smile, "for I'd hazard that if Sandor Clegane has brought a young Westerosi to Braavos, he doesn't intend to parade her about. If you are thirsty, girl, there is wine over there. Please, help yourself!"

Sansa had now spent nights in the forest, in a dungeon, and in a prison cart. She'd survived a shipwreck and had feared genuinely for her life. She liked to think of herself as far more than the skittish young girl who'd left Winterfell. But never in all of Sansa's days had she been spoken to as a commoner. She was jarred by the way that the Braavosi woman gestured so haphazardly off toward the wine, bidding Sansa to serve herself. Sansa squared her jaw, knowing that Sandor was probably laughing uproariously in his head at the sight of Lord Eddard Stark's daughter being summarily dismissed in a brothel.

She nodded and smiled weakly, walking slowly and calmly away from Sandor and off toward the little table where a jug of wine sat uncorked. Sansa poured some for herself into a glass that looked clean enough, and she sipped gently, trying to ignore the men and whores around her and instead staring rather blankly into the deep red wine.

She could hear them talking - Sandor and Merry - and she heard her husband explain only what he needed to, and change a few details. They were indeed exiles, he admitted, and he was looking for work as a sellsword. Had Merry seen any men in here recently, he asked, who seemed as though they might be hiring such men?

"Ah… I should hate to see one like you shipped off to the Disputed Lands," Merry lamented sadly. Sansa saw out of the corner of her eye as Merry glanced over her shoulder at Sansa and then back at Sandor. She lowered her voice and Sansa struggled to hear. "If you're in bad with your king, dearie, I can get you a far better deal than being a sellsword."

Sandor took Merry by the arm and led her into the shadows, out of the ear of the other men in the brothel.

"I'm listening," he rasped.

"A girl like me knows a thing or two, eh? Knows people."

Merry was practically whispering now, and Sansa cocked her head to hear properly, skittering her eyes toward the pair in the shadows. The sunlight behind them cast Sandor into an enormous silhouette, and Sansa heard Merry's rough voice say to him,

"Go to the Iron Bank. See a man called Noho Dimittis. Tell him I've sent you, and tell him who you are. I promise you, that man hates your king more than you ever could. He hates your king's mother, and he hates all your proper little lords and ladies, too. He will work with you, Sandor, and together with that pretty little girl over there, you shall be the ruin of House Lannister."

Notes:

I'm so sorry for the incredibly long delay in getting this properly written and posted! My son models and does commercials, and he's been very busy lately. On the plus side, this has helped my mood, but it's kept me very busy. If you want to see my cute baby in a commercial, search for "Fifth Third Barb Murphy" on YT and choose the video with the people in hockey jerseys. That's an actress with him, but the baby is my son! Ha!

Sorry, proud mama moment over.

Anyway... I promise I'll try to write more often, but I appreciate your understanding with my sluggishness and sincerely appreciate your readership. This fandom rocks my socks off. :-D More Sansan goodness ASAP. Promise.


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 26: House

Notes:

I promise the plot will resume next chapter (Iron Bank! More intrigue! A little girl named Arya Stark!) but... um... please excuse this interjection of smut! :-/ Sorry!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Sandor lit the tallow candles lining the narrow hallway in the little house that had been secured for himself and Sansa. The long, thin matchstick sizzled as he pulled it from one wick to another, until the small antechamber and cramped corridor were bathed in a warm glow.

Night had fallen in the streets of Braavos, which meant the city's good citizens had retreated into their slender houses and had battened down their shutters for the evening. The only ones left outside were the courtesans, the bravos, and anyone who was up to no good. Sandor and Sansa had found the little house and let themselves in with the key Sandor had been given aboard the carrack. It was chilly inside, and filled with shadows and spiderwebs. There was dusty furniture inside, but no food. Thankfully, they'd had a meal at a tavern before retiring for the evening.

"Who do you suppose lived here?" Sansa asked fearfully, clutching her cloak tightly around her shoulders. She was standing in the little room that seemed to be a kitchen, and her thin fingers coursed over the grubby sideboard.

Sandor shrugged. "Merchant, probably," he said gruffly. "It was… repossessed, far as I know."

He saw Sansa's eyebrows crumple in a bit of confusion, but she wisely did not ask any more questions. Either she did not want to know any more about how Sandor had come into possession of the house's key, or she did not care.

"I'm very tired," she pronounced suddenly, turning to face Sandor.

"I suppose the bedchamber is probably up the stairs," he told her, gesturing up the winding, constricted passageway. Sansa nodded wordlessly and brushed past Sandor, taking a lantern off a hook on the wall and using it to light her way. She glanced over her shoulder on the third step and said quietly to Sandor,

"There's wine. There, in that cabinet."

She pointed into the kitchen indifferently, sniffed a bit, and then turned and continued up the stairs. Sandor chewed his lip and watched her go. She had changed, his little bird. Months ago, she'd have been afraid here, in a strange house in a foreign city. Instead, here she was, informing him - her ever-drunk husband - that there was wine for him in the deserted kitchen.

Sandor sighed a bit and rifled through the cabinet at which she'd so halfheartedly gestured. There were dusty black bottles, a dozen or so. Dornish sours and sweet whites, mingling together in a delightful array of choice. Sandor selected a red and pulled the cork out with his teeth, gulping the fine drink down with abandon. It coated his throat and burned delightfully, sending warmth through him down to his toes. He stood alone in the kitchen for a good long while until nearly the entire bottle was gone, and then when only a gulp's worth was left, he set the black bottle down upon the butcher block and stumbled away from it.

He climbed the stairs in the darkness, his boots making muffled thumps on the planks of wood as he ascended. There were two small rooms at the top of the staircase, one to the right and one to the left. Sandor glanced into each and saw that Sansa was to his left, poking fitfully at some coals in a fireplace. In one hand, she clutched flint, and her other hand gripped the iron poker with which she was attempting to grow the meager flames.

Sandor chuckled under his breath at the sight of her… a high-born girl, a noblewoman, trying her damndest to build a fire to keep warm. Bless her little soul.

"Let me do that, little bird," he growled, reaching for the poker, but Sansa recoiled from him with an angry expression upon her face.

"I lit it!" she declared. "I can do it myself!"

Sandor suppressed another laugh. He held his hands up in surrender. "All right," he agreed, his voice conciliatory. "Go ahead, then."

He looked around the little space as Sansa continued to work on the fire. There was a small window, its leaded glass cloaked in the darkness of the night. The wooden floor had upon it a plush rug, and in the paltry light coming from the fireplace, Sandor could see an intricate pattern he recognized as coming from Myr. The bed was small but high, and Sandor wondered how he was expected to sleep on it without tumbling off and landing upon the floor. It looked soft, though he had to wonder how many insects had nested in its down-filled blankets and pillows since the last owner of the house had been here. His suspicions were confirmed when he approached the bed and swatted lightly at one of the pillows. Instantaneously, a dozen moths rose up into the air.

Sandor cleared his throat lightly and glanced back to the fireplace. Surprisingly, Sansa had managed to get quite a nice fire burning, and she'd turned around triumphantly. When she saw the moths swarm up from the bed, though, the look of gleeful pride upon her face faded into one of disgust.

"We… shall need to acquire new bedding," she said, the corner of her lip curling up with distaste. She swallowed heavily and looked around the little room, her eyes finally settling upon the plush rug. "Ah, well. We have slept upon forest floors many nights. A soft rug in front of a fire shan't be too terrible."

Sandor felt his mouth twist into a smile. "You really are a woman now, you know," he told her, and he meant it. He stepped slowly toward her, extending his hand to cup her cheek in his palm. She parted her lips a bit and stared up at him, her sapphire eyes bright in the light of her fire. "What has happened to the silly little lark they trapped in King's Landing?"

"You took her on quite an adventure." Sansa wrapped her fingers around Sandor's pressing his hand firmly against her face. She made a little sound of contentment, and Sandor felt a flush of thrill at the sound of her voice, the feel of her soft cheek beneath his rough skin. Sansa nuzzled her cheek more firmly into his touch and shut her eyes. "You took her away from them, and you set her free. She learned to fly. She rushed and she floated and soared over all of them until she'd crossed the sea with you. And now, here we are."

She opened her eyes again and looked up at him. Sandor felt his heart pounding hard in his chest, each beat screaming at him to kiss her and touch every inch of her skin, but he was frozen where he stood.

"Do you love me?" Sansa whispered.

Sandor wanted to answer her. He wanted to say something witty and beautiful, to tell her that she meant more to him than anyone ever had or ever would again. He wanted to tell her he'd die for her, that he felt sick if he thought of living without her.

Instead, he just nodded silently. "Aye," he heard himself whisper hoarsely. "I love you, little bird."

It was enough for her. She released his hand and reached for the tie that bound her cloak around her neck, letting it slip from her shoulders and pool around her feet.

"You were here, years ago," she said softly, but Sandor barely heard her. He was too distracted as she began to unbind her bodice. He gulped hard and nodded wordlessly.

"It was not long after King Robert's Rebellion," he rasped. "A few of the boys in the Lannister household, I among them, were sent over here with some knights to look for the Targaryen children that had been smuggled from Dragonstone. We searched the cities for months but found nothing. Tywin Lannister summoned us all back and gave it up. Now word is that girl's got dragons. Bet old Tywin Lannister wishes he'd had us look a bit harder."

Sansa looked as though she didn't much care for the details of the story, so Sandor shut up. Her bodice was falling free from her now, and she'd moved her hands to the ties at her waist. Sandor felt a lump in his throat and a lump in his breeches, and his fingers drifted between his thighs to stroke gently at the growing hardness there.

"You had many whores when you were here?" Sansa pressed, and Sandor wished with all his heart that she'd not asked him that question. He furrowed his brow and felt a bit of his arousal dissipate. He made his gray eyes meet her blue ones. He'd promised never to lie to her.

"I had many whores everywhere," he admitted. "Lannisport. King's Landing. Braavos. It doesn't matter now."

"No?" Sansa's skirt had glided off of her hips, and now she was sliding her thin linen shift over her shoulders, revealing the milky skin beneath. Sandor's breath hitched in his throat at the sight of her round, silken breasts bared to him. Her nipples were pert and firm, and he wanted very little else but to suckle at them as he buried himself to the hilt inside of her. When she spoke again, it was as though her voice were coming from somewhere very far away. "You wouldn't rather have them now? The whores?"

Sandor jolted, insulted by Sansa's words. He puckered his lips and glared at her, seeing out of the corner of her eye that her fingertips were dragging wantonly down her torso, dipping between her thighs and pulsing gently at her most secret place. She was touching herself, a sly little grin crossing her face, as she mocked him about whores.

The vixen, Sandor thought with a sneer. He'd show her what it meant to have experience.

"I don't want any whores," he growled, his voice a snarl in the darkness. "I want you. Come here, little bird."

He reached down and hastily unlaced his breeches, whipping his member out with one hand. His other hand grasped Sansa's arm and wrenched a bit roughly, yanking on her and guiding her down onto the rug. He arranged her on her hands and knees, pushing her thighs apart with his chapped hands and feeling her soft skin quiver beneath his touch. She moaned when he positioned his cock at her entrance, and he felt a rush of moisture as she became abruptly aroused. She tipped her hips up and back, presenting herself to him, and Sandor felt himself throbbing almost painfully. His heart thudded in his chest and his breath came fast and shallow. The sight of her like this, submissive and yielding, her voice mewling his name like she genuinely wanted him… it was almost too much. He almost lost himself right there, almost spilled his seed all over her entrance before he had the chance to thrash himself into her.

A groan ripped itself from his throat as he grasped her waist tightly in his left hand and used his right to guide himself into her moist ingress.

"Fucking hells," he murmured, for she was so snug around his tip and shaft that he shuddered, struggling to control himself.

Sansa, for her part, collapsed with a bit of a shriek onto her elbows, pushing her hips even farther up toward Sandor. She lay her face upon the rug and her fingers clutched desperately at the fibers. He was stretching her, Sandor knew, and she liked it. She was groaning with delight, and the sound nearly tipped him over the edge of his pleasure.

"Tell me what you want, little bird," Sandor grunted, pulling his length out of her body torturously slowly before thrusting it back in one inch at a time. "Tell me what I should do to you."

Sansa's voice was muffled by the rug. "Oh…" she moaned, sounding lost and dazed. Her hands grabbed aimlessly. "Harder… ungh… please, move faster."

Sandor let out a low, rumbling laugh that vibrated deep in his chest. "You're going to have to be significantly more specific, Sansa."

She tossed her hair over her shoulder, sighing with exasperation and glaring at Sandor. She said nothing, but panted eagerly, her blue eyes glowing with want. Sandor felt a fresh rush of desire flow to his cock, but controlled his movements and laughed again.

"Tell me," he insisted. "Tell me what you want. You aren't a delicate little girl any more. Say the vile words, Sansa. Tell me to fuck you. Tell me you want my cock."

She looked determined, and she shook her head no, twisting back over her shoulder and burying her head back into the rug. Sandor continued to plunge himself in and out of her drenched entrance, his motions agonizingly slow. He felt sweat beading upon his forehead, felt his hands shaking on her waist as he struggled to contain himself. He wanted nothing more than to rut her like an animal, but he wanted to hear her beg.

His clothes were sticking to his skin uncomfortably, and his entire body was pulsing and trembling. He could feel his balls pulling up to his body, tightening and tensing, and he knew he couldn't hold out much longer. He clenched his hands tightly on Sansa's waist, worrying distantly that his fingers would leave bruises.

"Tell me to fuck you, little bird," he rasped, but as his voice cracked with want, Sandor realized it was he who was begging her, and not the other way around. She'd won; she'd defeated him, and he hadn't even realized there'd been a battle.

Then, before he could spill himself inside of her and put his child in her, Sandor yanked his cock from the delicious wet warmth of Sansa's body and clutched it in his hand. He coursed his rough palm over the slick tip a few times, and then his body exploded with a profound and vivid buzz. His seed splashed forth onto the round cheeks of Sansa's backside, landing in creamy pools upon her alabaster skin.

Sansa lay there for a good long while on her stomach, with the proof of Sandor's pleasure splattered across her body. He knelt behind her and stared down, at first a bit irritated with her that she had not obeyed him. If she'd just done what he'd told her and begged him to pummel her, he would have…

Well, the same result would have happened, he supposed. He would have pulled out of her eventually, and he would have found his release.

Only, she would have wound up feeling like one of the many whores he'd admitted to having over the years. But this way, she'd shown him - and herself - that she had at least some degree of control over herself and over him. She'd shown both of them that she was not anything like any of those other girls.

Sandor slid his finger through the puddle of his seed upon her buttock and felt her shiver beneath his touch.

"I love you, little bird," he whispered.

"As I love you, Husband," she replied.

Notes:

Oops! Sorry about that! As I said, I promise that the plot will resume next chapter! Hee hee heeeeeee... I did think that this was important for character development, though! Thanks again for your readership... all feedback is greatly appreciated! PLEASE, if you have time to review, I'd REALLY appreciate it!


	26. Chapter 26

Notes:

Hello, all! As promised, here is more plot! Intrigue! And a smidge of Sansan fluff because reasons.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Sansa jolted awake, startled out of a nightmare. She gulped and shut her eyes against the blazing light of morning, seeing it all again in her mind. They were beating her mercilessly, Ser Meryn and Ser Boros, and all she could feel was pain. Then she heard his voice.

"Enough."

He'd defied the King for her, even then.

"Dog, hit her," Joffrey had sneered, but Ser Dontos had stepped in with his melon instead. Would Sandor have beaten her if the fool hadn't intervened? Sansa liked to think he wouldn't have, under any circumstances.

All the times Joffrey was cruel to her, Sandor was there. And Sandor was never cruel, even though Sansa had feared him. He'd wiped blood from her face, saved her from rapists, escorted her back from the godswood when he'd known she was up to no good. If ever there had been a true knight, Sansa thought, Sandor was it.

She shifted on the rug where they lay, feeling that his thick arm was laced around her body in sleep. She cast an arm and a leg across him, pulling his cloak up more tightly around her naked form. She nuzzled her face into his bare shoulder and let one of her hands drift up to his face, feeling the rivulets of scar tissue beneath her palm.

"Ever my champion," Sansa whispered.

Sandor let out a little noise in his sleep, a low guttural sound of contentment, and his calloused fingers swept aimlessly up her ribcage. Sansa shivered, feeling a stab of want for him suddenly shoot through her veins.

Her hand drifted from his cheek to trail down his bearded neck and over his firm chest, dusted with hair. She slipped her fingers beneath the cloak that covered them, and there she felt his erection, the kind men got as they dreamed. Sansa let her fingers wrap slowly around his shaft, and in response to her touch, Sandor's body shifted and he grunted. Sansa watched his face, but he remained sleeping, his eyes shut peacefully and his breath slow and steady.

"I love you," Sansa whispered, knowing there would be no answer. She didn't mind. She needed to tell him, even if he didn't hear.

She peeled back the cloak from them, slowly so as not to startle him with the sudden chill of the air. Then she moved herself to hover above his calves, staring down at his member as she held it gently in her hand. The fact that Sandor was sleeping gave Sansa a good moment to examine him undisturbed.

Sansa had always been led to believe that she would have a Lord Husband, a noble man with lands and titles and wealth who would take her into his castle and provide her with the comfortable life to which she'd always been accustomed. Sandor was not that man. His house had a sigil, and a hall, and a fearsome reputation for loyalty and brutality. But the Cleganes were baseborn among knights and lords. Two generations removed from outright servitude, Sandor Clegane would have been scoffed at by Sansa's father as a match for his eldest and most marriageable daughter.

Well, where was Sansa's father now? The last Sansa had seen of him, he'd been rotting atop a pike - or, at least, part of him had been. It was as Sandor had said those months ago. Sansa couldn't have anybody better than Sandor.

Thank the gods for that, Sansa thought, for otherwise she would not be where she was now, perched above his sleeping form, clutching his erection, her ruby lips parted and moving onto him.

The moment his salty tip was enveloped by the wet warmth of Sansa's mouth, she heard a low moan and felt him jar awake.

Sansa kept pushing him into her mouth, relishing the sensation of his tip against the back of her throat. She struggled not to gag, making swallowing motions against him. She felt Sandor's rough fingers grasp firmly at her auburn hair then, heard him suck in air, and she reached out a hand into space.

He took it, lacing his fingers through hers and holding her hand tightly as she lapped as his tip and licked swirls around his shaft. The throbbing between her own legs threatened to drive Sansa mad, and her throat vibrated with want each time she swallowed Sandor's cock. She moaned, quite against her own will, feeling the tremor of her voice against his velvety skin.

"Fucking hells, Sansa," she heard him rasp from above her, and his fingers tightened in her hair. "Good morning to you, too."

Soon the dull thudding sensation between Sansa's legs developed into a full-on need for him. She was positively drenched there; she could feel that she was swollen and there was a spreading warmth. Sansa let her hand still on Sandor's shaft and gently pulled her lips from him. She heard a little whimper of protest from him when she did, and she smirked up at him as she scampered upward, placing a leg on either side of his hips.

"Just so you know what it is you've gotten yourself into, little bird," Sandor smirked, "men last longer in the morning. Much longer."

"Good." Sansa stared smugly down at him as she guided his cock toward her sodden entrance, and they both hissed with pleasure as his girth stretched her body. She sank onto him, twisting her hips a bit as she settled, and reached with her hands to grip his stony shoulders.

She ground against him for a while, tipping her head back as she focused on how thoroughly he filled her. She could feel him throbbing inside of her, and the sensation made her even more aroused. She stared at the ceiling and grasped tightly at his shoulders, letting a groan rip forth from her lips in a most unladylike fashion.

Then she felt Sandor's coarse hands pawing at her, his touch smooth and gentle despite the roughness of his skin. He was brushing his knuckles over her collarbone, squeezing carefully at her breasts, fiddling a bit with her hardened nipples.

One of his hands drifted lower, over her taut abdomen, and his thumb began to play with the place where their bodies met. Sansa forced her eyes down to his, her gaze boring into him with a burning want as he caressed her in all the right places. His hands moved in a graceful tandem - as one thumb flicked over a nipple, the other tweaked her nub. One hand squeezed her teat, cupping its weight in his palm and brushing his fingertips around her ribs. The other hand strayed to her hips as she rocked, gripping tightly to her backside and urging her fluid motions onward.

Sansa could hear her voice moaning, could feel herself climbing a peak, and as she stared down into Sandor's gray eyes, she felt her own burning with tears she wouldn't have been able to explain. Perhaps it was love for him. Perhaps it was something else. She didn't really care.

"It doesn't matter where you go, little bird," Sandor rasped at her suddenly, and Sansa crumpled her brows in confusion. He gulped heavily below her and clarified, "You could go to Dorne. You could go to Yi Ti. You could go home to Winterfell. And every place you went, it'd be the same. You're the most beautiful woman in the entire world."

The searing tears that had formed in Sansa's eyes boiled over, streaking down her cheeks as she swayed atop him. She let go of his shoulder for a moment, just long enough to swipe roughly at her face with the back of her hand. Sandor grasped her wrist gently and held fast as he hoisted himself up into a sitting position. He leaned forward just enough to kiss the tears from Sansa's knuckles, and he raised his shadowy eyes to her.

"Please don't cry, little bird," he murmured. His thick arms coursed around Sansa's back and drew her against his chest. Sansa buried her face in his neck and smelled leather, steel, salt, wine. Him. When he spoke again, she could feel the vibration of his deep voice in his throat. "I've seen you cry far too many tears at the hands and words of beastly men. I should like it very much if I never saw you cry again."

Sansa ground her hips against him, her motions hard but slow. She planted little kisses on the rough, bearded skin of his jaw and neck as she moved, listening to his ragged breathing. When her pleasure washed over her, the climax was almost soothing. It was not overwhelming or powerful as other times had been, but was blissful and comfortable. Sansa felt as though she could sleep right where she was, snug against Sandor's body, in the wake of her orgasm. She only realized that he hadn't finished when she'd been motionless against him for a few solid minutes, and felt him still quite hard inside of her.

She started to swirl her hips again, though she was sensitive after coming. She needed to let him have his pleasure, too, she knew. But then Sandor placed his large hands on her hips and pulled her flush against him, keeping her from moving.

Sansa placed a palm flush against his scars and nuzzled her face further into his neck. She felt the heat radiating from his skin into hers, felt the thud of his heart echoing from his chest through her breasts. She felt the slow rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathed, and she counted his breaths.

"I will do whatever you need me to so that you can finish," she whispered against his skin, feeling guilty that she'd felt such gratification, while his member remained unappeased and firm inside of her. She felt Sandor shake his head no.

"I don't need to," he rasped, and she felt the whisper of a kiss brush against her cheekbone. "This is better. Just like this."

* * *

The Iron Bank of Braavos was a fearsome establishment. The enormous building in which the bankers conducted business could best be described as a luxurious fortress. Sansa and Sandor had woven their way through a good many carefully-guarded corridors and passageways before finally being shown into a bright, airy parlor.

"Noho Dimittis will be here shortly," said a man with a short sword at his side, clad in somber browns and blacks. He left the two of them in the room, with only silent sentinels around the exits for company.

Sansa sighed lightly as she surveyed the space. The windows were enormous and open to show the view of the Purple Harbor below, where Braavosi ships were docked in the morning sun. In the windows, gauzy white curtains billowed gently. Sandor had seated himself upon an oversized, plush-looking cushion, helping himself to a jet-black goblet of wine.

Sansa was nervous, for she knew little of Westerosi politics and even less of how the Iron Throne interacted with Braavos. She and Sandor had agreed that she would be silent unless directly addressed by the Braavosi banker. Sandor had a purpose here, Sansa knew, though what exactly that purpose was, he seemed less than willing to say.

"Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell, daughter of the once-esteemed Lord Eddard Stark, himself friend and accomplice of the Great Usurper, King Robert Baratheon. The daughter of an executed traitor, the sister of an actively rebelling pretender, the scorned betrothed of King Joffrey. Welcome, Lady Sansa, to the Iron Bank of Braavos."

Sansa startled and turned away from the windows. The strange words, coming from a strange voice, belonged to a thin man in dark robes who was striding quickly through the open chamber. Sandor had quickly risen from his cushion and had placed his black goblet upon a table nearby. He moved to stand beside Sansa, his stance defensive. Sansa was taken aback. Nothing the Braavosi man had said was untrue, of course, but it was all very uncouth, and rather distasteful, the way he'd said it. Sansa tried not to curl her lip in disgust as she curtsied a bit and said,

"Most noble ser… thank you for agreeing to meet with us." She rose and gestured toward Sandor by way of introduction. She never forgot her courtesies. "My Lord, this is my husband, Sandor of House Clegane. It is he who wishes to discuss matters with you."

"Ser Sandor Clegane, is it?" Noho Dimittis cocked a mocking smile at Sandor, who smirked back. "The one they call The King's Hound?"

"It's no Ser."

"Indeed." Noho Dimittis gestured toward the cushions, beckoning Sandor and Sansa to sit. He himself took a place opposite them upon a divan, and then he spoke again. "I am pleased you came to see me so quickly upon your arrival in Braavos. I received word from a contact in King's Landing that you were headed our way. I had thought to seek you out myself."

"To what end?" Sandor asked cautiously.

The corner of Noho Dimittis' mouth turned up a bit. He snapped his fingers once, curtly, and a servant skittered over to pour him a goblet of wine. "If you didn't know, the Iron Bank of Braavos is owed an enormous sum by the Realm from which you have journeyed. When Lord Eddard Stark discovered this, he nobly sought to staunch the bleeding, as it were. Or, at least, to increase repayments to us. It is a pity, truly, that they took his head. My condolences, My Lady."

Noho Dimittis raised his goblet in Sansa's direction and drank. The gesture seemed petty and sarcastic, and Sansa felt a bit ill. She smiled sadly and nodded her thanks.

"We are receiving bits of gold here and there from Westeros," Noho Dimittis admitted, frowning, "but at the current rate of repayment, with ongoing borrowing continuing, Braavos will never see this debt repaid. I am sure you are familiar with what is said about the Iron Bank?"

Sandor chewed his lip. "The Iron Bank will have its due."

"The Iron Bank will have its due." Noho Dimittis nodded slowly. "While pretenders, usurpers, and incestuous bastards squabble over the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, an enormous debt mounts. Word comes that there is no more Lannister gold, that Tywin Lannister borrows with impunity based on reputation. His coffers are empty. We do not lend to peacocks who strut their lovely feathers about. We lend to those who will pay it back. It has been to our detriment that Westeros has been given such enormous amounts of our money. I fear we shall never see it again unless by force."

Sansa felt her pulse quicken, and she saw Sandor shift on the cushion beside her.

"A Braavosi invasion of Westeros?" Sandor rasped incredulously. Noho Dimittis laughed roughly, and Sandor shook his head in confusion.

"Of course not," Noho Dimittis said condescendingly. "We have many allies in Westeros, some in the Red Keep itself. We have a much better chance of getting our gold back if the Lannisters are not allowed to continue borrowing on false credit. 'A Lannister always pays his debts,' they say. Well, then why do we receive one-tenth of what we are owed each year? Why are we lending Westeros so much more than we are being repaid? There must be a king on the Iron Throne who makes the financial health of the Realm a priority. Only then can there be a healthy working relationship between Braavos and Westeros."

"Well, then you'd best send some ships to Stannis Baratheon," Sandor pronounced snidely. "Heard he's not doing so well after the Blackwater, but if there was ever man who'd be cautious with coin, it's Stannis. Only problem is, if Stannis loses and you have to wait Joffrey out, you've likely got a long way to go. He's young and in good health, unfortunately." He smirked.

Noho Dimittis gave Sandor, and then Sansa, a knowing smile. He tented his fingertips and pursed his lips as he said cautiously, "He was young. And he was in good health. Until he was found in his royal bedchamber with his throat slit."

He produced a small scroll from his robes and held it out to Sandor, who took it with a trembling hand and unfurled it.

"Urgent news, early this morning, from King's Landing. The bells are still tolling, I'm sure. Valar morghulis."

Sansa couldn't breathe, all of a sudden. The room was hot, and spinning, and there were men's voices echoing from somewhere far away. When at last she was able to make out what they were saying, she heard Sandor ask,

"What does this mean for Braavos, then? What does it mean for us?"

Sansa stared blankly out the window at a cloud. She couldn't move. She couldn't speak. Joffrey was dead. Someone had cut his throat while he slept. Joffrey was dead.

"It is as you say. Having Stannis Baratheon on the Iron Throne is a safer bet in getting the debt effectively repaid. I do not care whether your king is inbred, but I do care if he's a child. Tommen Baratheon will have his mind and his hands guided by old Lannisters. It is the intention of the Iron Bank to conservatively fund the efforts of Stannis Baratheon to gain the Iron Throne of Westeros. There is no gold in the Westerlands. Not anymore. And, therefore, there is no need for insolent Lannisters, either."

Notes:

Ermagerd. Joffrey is dead. Woo hoo! Was it Arya? Was it a rebel in the Keep? Does it matter now that Stannis has a backing for his effort? Will lords around the Realm bend the knee to Stannis? And what about Tommen? Gah.

I would REALLY appreciate feedback so that I kno


	27. Chapter 27

Sandor stared at his reflection as he rubbed a cloth over the borrowed blade he held across his lap. He'd been at it for an hour now, first gently abrading away surface rust, and then swiping a light coat of oil over the sword. This blade was not Sandor's, not truly, but he'd gotten used to the feel of it at his hip. He wanted it sharp and smooth in case he ever needed to dirty it with blood.

He looked up at the sound of a creaking door and saw Sansa stepping over the front threshold. She'd been out for a walk, and she'd been gone for hours. Sandor shook his head and looked back at the sword. He'd insisted on accompanying her, but she had made in plain she wanted to walk alone. Why, Sandor didn't know. She'd said it was because his burns made him recognizable and his size made him stand out. Sandor suspected she just wanted to be alone, and he'd finally let her go.

Sansa put down the heavy hood of her dark green cloak and fingered the thick copper-colored braid that was tossed over her shoulder.

"I've brought food," she announced softly, and Sandor flicked his eyes up from where he sat to see her unloading a woven basket. She had dried meat, he could see, and a loaf of crusty bread. There appeared to be some salted fish, and a few apples, and a block of cheese, too. Most importantly, she had two skins of wine. Sandor felt an abrupt thirst grate at his throat, and he nodded curtly at her.

"I'll take one of the skins now," he said gruffly. He saw Sansa purse her lips, heard her sigh a bit, but she stepped across the little room toward him and held out one of the skins.

Sandor yanked the cork out with his teeth and spit it onto the bench beside him. He pulled the skin to his dry lips and gulped down the sour red within. He watched Sansa as he drank and saw that she had her hands folded tightly together in front of her stomach. She looked anxious, as though she had something important she was afraid to say. Sandor corked the wineskin and sighed, pulling his wrist across his mouth.

"Out with it, little bird," he said, trying to make his voice gentle.

Sansa parted her lips and stared deliberately at her hands. "There were people talking in the Common Tongue at the market," she said softly, "About Westeros."

It had been a week since they'd received word of Joffrey's death, and Sansa had been quiet and thoughtful since then. Sandor nodded, encouraging her to continue.

"Two men. I did not know them, though they did not seem like smallfolk." Sansa chewed on her bottom lip and raised her blue eyes to meet Sandor's. "They said Joffrey was killed by a ghost. That there were three Kingsguard outside his chamber when he went to bed, and they were there still in the morning. They finally barged into his room after he did not answer their waking call. He was lying dead, in his blankets and all, his throat slashed wide open and his arms crossed over his chest. The window was shut. They tortured Ser Meryn, thinking one of the Kingsguard must have done it, but Meryn died under torture maintaining his and the other guards' innocence. People whisper, or say out loud, that a ghost killed the king, though apparently Queen Cersei and Lord Tywin are quite determined to find a mortal murderer to blame."

Sandor considered all that Sansa had said. He swigged again from the wineskin as he thought. Whomever had killed Joff had been careful not to leave trace of themselves. If Meryn had been guilty, he would not have been so careful, and certainly would have admitted it under the sort of torture Cersei Lannister would have ordered. Furthermore, Sandor did not think that Meryn, or indeed any of the present Kingsguard, had motive to murder Joffrey. Not even for financial gain. Meryn and the other white cloaks could never hope for a higher place than that they held as Joffrey's personal guardians. Why slit his throat? Someone had come in the window and gone back out again. But the royal chambers were high up. Hard to access. The assailant would have needed working knowledge of the Red Keep, and good skills, in order to pull it off.

"Might be it was a ghost," Sandor rasped finally, "for I can't think of any person skilled enough, with a strong enough will, to break into that boy's room, cut his neck, and leave undetected."

"I can," Sansa nodded, and Sandor watched her cheeks grow pink with anxiety. "My sister, Arya."

Sandor crumpled his eyebrows. He cocked his head in disbelief. Arya Stark was a little girl. To be certain, she was a boyish little girl. Sandor had seen her "dancing" about the Keep with a Braavosi instructor, her thin little sword swirling through the air as she stabbed and slashed at imaginary foes. She was tough, Sandor had thought, when he'd known her. But she was a little girl.

"Sansa," Sandor murmured, "No one has seen Arya since the day that your… since that day."

"The day that Joffrey stood before the Great Sept of Baelor and ordered Ser Ilyn Payne to chop off my father's head." Sansa glared into Sandor's eyes, her gaze searingly blue. "I was there. You were there. I saw you standing behind him. And I saw her, too. Out in the crowd. Just a moment, a flash. And then, they killed him, and all the world went black. And she was gone."

Sandor heard an ache in Sansa's voice, a crack of regret slicing through the monotone she'd perfected in her time at King's Landing.

"She could have climbed the wall," Sansa continued, fidgeting her fingers about and staring down at them. "At Winterfell, she climbed quite a bit, and my mother hated it. She would not have been afraid, I think, standing there while Joffrey slept. She would have looked down at his sleeping, stupid face, and she would have thought of our father. She would have replayed it all in her head, how Joffrey smiled as he commanded them to kill the Warden of the North. She would have remembered how our father was gentle and kind to the both of us, how he loved us."

Sansa's cheeks deepened in color as she fought back tears, and she gently shut her eyes. Sandor did not know what to say, so he said nothing at all.

"She would have cut Joffrey's throat gladly, I'm sure of it. It was her. I know it." Sansa nodded vigorously, clenching her eyelids shut more tightly. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed heavily, and she sniffed lightly as she seemed to realize something. "I miss her."

Sandor let a hollow silence fall in the room, and he glanced back at his reflection in the blade of his sword. "The two of you fought like angry cats," he mumbled. "On the Kingsroad, when I had to kill that butcher's boy… that boy would be alive if it weren't for two squabbling sisters. Your direwolf would be alive."

He heard Sansa gasp a bit at his words, and he continued staring into the reflective steel as he heard Sansa angrily demand,

"Why are you such a cruel man? You fool me into thinking you have a heart, and then… you are very callous."

Sandor glared up at her indignantly. "You hated her when you could. She annoyed you; I heard you tell her many times."

"And?" Sansa looked crushed. "Don't you think I would give back every terrible word I ever said to Arya just to watch her play wooden swords again? Don't you think I would apologize to her, if I could just hear her laugh one more time? I was wicked to her. I know it. Don't you think I know it?"

Her voice was shrill and panicky then, and tears tumbled forth from her cerulean eyes, coursing over her scarlet cheeks. Sandor gulped heavily and rose from his bench. He took a step toward Sansa and watched as she stepped backward, away from him. A twinge of anguish squeezed his chest at the sight of her, angry and afraid.

"You're right," Sandor rasped, reaching his hands out slowly. Sansa let him place them lightly upon her shoulders, though she flinched under his touch. "If it was a living soul that cut Joffrey's throat, it's as likely Arya as anybody else. I'm sorry, little bird. I don't mean to be cruel. Not with you."

He reached for Sansa's chin and tipped it up to his face, pressing his calloused lips against Sansa's soft ones. She tasted sweet, like honey and apples.

"The men at the market had more to say," Sansa whispered, looking very serious. "I can only pray to the Old Gods and the New that they are wrong… that they are mistaken somehow."

She dissolved suddenly, collapsing against Sandor's chest and shuddering with quiet tears. Sandor was confused by the abrupt onset of her grief, and he snaked his arms around her shoulders. Sansa began to sob then, her tears hot and wet through Sandor's roughspun tunic.

"Hush now," he growled gently into her hair. "Breathe, my lady."

His little bird had become very good at wrapping herself in ringmail that nobody else could see. She could keep her voice even, her gaze empty, her hands steady… for a time. But even the strongest armor had points of failure, and there was something Sansa knew now that had cut through her mental bulwark. Whatever the men at the market had said, it had sliced his little bird through more surely than any blade.

"What did they say?" Sandor asked softly.

"They said…" Sansa raised her sapphire eyes to him and shook her head as if the words were too horrible to speak. Her voice was a cracked whisper as she said, "They were laughing… 'Sewed his wolf's head right onto his shoulders,' they sneered, 'and tossed the old Tully girl into the Trident like an unwanted fish.'"

Sandor felt cold, all of a sudden. He could scarcely move as the terrible words resonated through his skull. Sansa collapsed again against his chest, clutching fiercely at his tunic.

"They must be wrong," she sobbed. "They were lying. It's a stupid jape, nothing more. They would never do such a thing to Robb. To my… mother…"

She heaved with every shaking breath, wracked with her tormented sobs.

Sandor blinked rapidly. "I will find out the truth, little bird," he whispered, planting a soft kiss against the top of her head. "If there was a battle… I don't know…"

He wanted to tell her that she was right, that it couldn't be true. But, of course, it could. Robb could have easily been slain on the field, his corpse desecrated, Catelyn Stark taken and raped and thrown unceremoniously into the river. Sandor wanted to reassure Sansa that it was all just a ghastly rumor, but the possibility that the strangers' words had been true sent a shiver through his veins.

"Little bird," he said, "Tell me what they were wearing. The men."

Sansa stared up at him, her lovely eyes red-rimmed and sparkling with tears. She shook her head and shrugged helplessly. "I don't know," she admitted, looking as though she were trying to remember. "I saw no sigils. They were not wearing armor."

There was a sudden, firm knock upon the front door of the house, and Sansa jumped against Sandor's chest. Sandor reached behind him for his sword and pushed Sansa into the corner, out of sight. He stalked carefully to the door, gripping the sword in his right hand and flexing the fingers of his left.

He opened the door slowly, carefully peering over the threshold. In the sunny alley outside stood a street urchin, bony and grubby. His skin was pale as moonlight, his wide eyes the color of stone, his filthy hair a drab brown mop. The child stared up at Sandor with all the confidence of a warrior, and thrust out his hand. Sandor glanced down to see that he was holding out a scroll, wrapped in red ribbon and sealed with a blot of wax. Sandor took the scroll cautiously and demanded in a growl,

"Who sent you, child?"

The boy shook his head, smiled wryly, and put a finger to his lips as if to quiet Sandor. Then, quick as a flash, he spun on his bare heels and dashed down the alley. Sandor watched him go until he rounded a corner, and then he looked down at the scroll. He broke the seal and unfurled it as he reentered the house and shut the door behind him.

"What does it say?" Sansa asked anxiously. Sandor did not answer. He read the long scroll silently to himself.

"It's a bloody poem," he said after a while, and finally he began reading it aloud to Sansa.

"_In foreign lands, you seek a place_

_Where no one knows your blemished face._

_But, caution! With the girl beware_

_For enemies are everywhere._

_Before a knife slashed monarch's throat,_

_There sailed a humble little boat_

_With men aboard, charged by the Crown_

_To hunt the hound and she-wolf down,_

_To bring them back to face the sword,_

_Or trade to an ambitious lord._

_But now the Northern King is dead,_

_His crown replaced by beastly head._

_The mother, too - she was destroyed._

_A trap and tricks were well employed._

_Now Walder Frey takes Riverrun,_

_As prize for killing Eddard's Son._

_And Tommen sits upon the Throne,_

_He rules in name, though not alone._

_For still the Lions sway the lands,_

_The Mother Queen, the Imp, the Hand._

_And all, Not-Ser, would be amused_

_To see The Hound brought back, abused,_

_His entrails pulled, his joints displaced._

_And flames once more put on his face._

_Do not come back, for there is now_

_A scarcity of men who bow_

_Before the Lords of Winterfell,_

_Oh, yes! Did I neglect to tell -_

_Two children roasted, put on spikes,_

_Their deaths brought by the Prince of Pyke._

_The Iron Bank has sent us word_

_That we their wrath have much incurred._

_We wait for Stannis to arrive._

_Last time they let him out alive._

_That error twice shall not be made._

_If Stannis falls, I am afraid_

_There there will never shelter be_

_Upon this side of Narrow Sea._

_Keep Sansa safe. Do not return_

_Until you know King's Landing's burned_

_And that there sits upon the Throne_

_Baratheon of Dragonstone._

_There is one final bit of word_

_To tell your Summer Isle bird._

_Report to her the unseen soul_

_Who caused the bells to clang and toll,_

_Who killed the monarch in his sleep_

_Who caused the Queen to keen and weep,_

_Did so resemble Eddard Stark,_

_Yes, even in the secret dark,_

_That I can confidently tell,_

_Of Arya Stark, alive and well."_


	28. Chapter 28

Notes:

I apologize for the smutty, angsty nature of this chapter. LOL.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Sansa stared out the rippled glass window of the bedchamber and watched the steady, cold rain fall upon the alleys of Braavos. She had been peering wordlessly out the window since sunrise, still wearing her nightdress. Her hair was uncombed and fell in messy tendrils about her face. She was unbathed, and she did not care. She had not eaten in perhaps a full day, but she had no hunger.

Her grief over the past week had been like a crushing weight, keeping her awake at night and making her feel as though every motion took an immense effort. Every time her mind drifted to her family - which was often - Sansa was confronted with brutal imaginations of what had been done to each of them. Bran and Rickon, murdered by a rebellious Theon Greyjoy. Her father, executed before her eyes. And Robb and her mother, trapped and killed and desecrated. Sansa did not cry anymore, though she had done so nonstop for the first few days. Her eyes had quite run out of tears, she had determined, and she did not have the energy to make any more.

The sound of a rough, quiet voice caused Sansa to startle.

"You need to eat, little bird."

Sansa whirled around from where she sat, forcing her eyes to meet Sandor's. He stood before the fireplace, where a warm blaze raged, and held out a wooden trencher to her. Sansa eyed the crusty bread, the green apple, and the bit of salted meat. Suddenly, she felt very hungry indeed, but she turned away back toward the window. She propped her jaw upon her hand and sighed a bit.

"Sansa." Sandor's rasp cut through the silence of the room like a knife. "I know… I know feels too much to bear. But you must go on living. People are killed; that's the way of the cruel world. None of them would want you like this. If your father knew I was letting you go hungry with grief, he'd have my balls for it."

There was a little moment in which Sansa imagined her father, alive and well, castrating Sandor because he hadn't forced her to eat. She snorted quietly, wanting very badly to laugh at the preposterous thought.

"Very well," she whispered, and she turned to take the trencher from Sandor. "Thank you."

She set the plate upon the windowsill and picked at the salted pork with her thin fingers. She pulled off a bit and put the bite delicately between her lips, chewing carefully. Then she took a bite of bread, and a nibble of hard cheese.

"That's better," she heard Sandor say behind her. "Grief will put you in an awful cycle. You're tired and you're somber, so you don't move or eat or sleep. Only, that makes you even more tired, and more somber. And so soon you're just a hollow shell of a person, lost in your terrible thoughts."

Sansa furrowed her eyebrows. His words were borne of experience. "Who have you grieved?" she asked softly, chewing silently upon a bit of bread. For a long moment, Sandor didn't answer. Sansa heard his weight shift upon the floorboards, and then at last he mumbled,

"A sister. Gone far too young."

Sansa wanted to ask him what her name was, how she'd died, but she heard an unease in Sandor's voice at the mention of the girl, and Sansa thought better of it. She just nodded and took a small sip of wine from the cup he placed on the windowsill.

"Thank you," she said again.

For the past week, Sandor had slept upon the rug in front of the fireplace, while Sansa had slept in the bed. Sandor had purchased cheap new linens to replace the old moth-eaten ones, and though the sheets were rough and scratchy, Sansa had found the bed comfortable enough. Sandor had sensed her enormous grief in the wake of learning the news from Westeros, and he'd taken a step back from her in more ways than one. He'd not touched nor kissed her, had hardly spoken to her, and slept away from her. Sansa had needed the space, at first, but now as she sensed him behind her, she thought that perhaps her grief might not be so great if she could allow herself to love him again.

She turned slowly to face him. "Will you kiss me?" she asked without pretense. Sandor cocked an eyebrow, looking pleasantly surprised.

"Of course I will. I'm your husband. I'll kiss you as often as you like, for all the rest of my days." Sandor slowly sank onto a knee and laced his fingers through Sansa's hair. She shivered at his touch and let her eyes flutter shut. Then she felt his rough lips against hers, and she parted her mouth to grant him entry. He snuck his tongue between her lips, very gently coursing it over the roof of her mouth. Sansa could not contain the low sound that was pulled forth from her chest when he did that, and she felt a sudden flush of want for him.

Sandor seemed to sense that the kiss, which had begun rather innocently, had escalated. He cleared his throat and pulled away from her, and when Sansa opened her eyes, he was gliding the pad of his thumb over his bottom lip, his eyes glistening.

Sansa spoke before she had even thought of what she was saying; the words tumbled forth from her as though someone else were speaking them.

"I want you to put a child in me now," she whispered furtively. She wasn't sure how she expected Sandor to respond, for even she had not considered the idea until this moment. When she saw his sad smile, the way he gently shook his head no, she crumpled inside.

"A child is not a cure for grief, Sansa," he reminded her. "A child will not fill the gaps in your soul left by all of them."

"That is not why I ask." Sansa chewed her lip. She felt as though she were convincing herself as much as him. She swallowed heavily. "If they do catch us, and I am with child, they are less likely to kill me."

Sandor chuckled, his voice a deep growl. "I don't think that's true at all," he insisted. "No. They would merely revel in the fact that they were getting three victims instead of two."

"But don't you think we owe to them? To my father, my mother, my brothers? Don't you think you deserve a scion?" Sansa knew she sounded desperate. If truth were told, she herself had no idea why she was begging Sandor to impregnate her. All she knew was that she had a burning desire to bear him a child, to be a mother.

Sandor pushed himself up to stand, grunting a bit as he rose from the floor. He stared down at her very seriously and said, "We will discuss it another time. The decision to have a child should not be so impulsive."

He turned to go from the room, to leave Sansa alone, and she felt a wave of panic at the sight of him leaving.

"Wait, please." Sansa heard her voice trembling as she pulled herself from the chair and followed him across the room. She reached for his shoulder and turned him to face her. "At least sleep beside me tonight."

Sandor nodded once, leaned down to place a chaste kiss upon her forehead. Then he turned around again and stalked from the bedchamber. Sansa listened to his heavy footfalls as he descended the staircase, doubtless in search of wine.

Later, she lay in bed beside him but found herself quite unable to sleep. They were both staring into the fireplace, both silent with their own thoughts.

"How do you stand to see it?" Sansa asked him suddenly.

"See what?" Sandor asked, wrapping his thick arm around her shoulders and coursing his fingertips up her sleeve.

"Fire."

He was silent, and his fingers stilled against her arm. Sansa wondered distantly if she'd offended him, but then she heard him exhale heavily, and he said,

"It's a rather ubiquitous thing, fire. A man can only be so afraid of it and still go about life."

"Do you suppose the same is true of death?" Sansa posited. "It is everywhere; it touches everyone. One can only be so afraid of it."

She heard Sandor chuckle, a low growl under his breath. "Yes, I suppose it's much the same. You will learn, little bird, how to stare death in the face and ignore it… don't let it get too close. Stand back. But if you keep your distance, you can ignore it. Death and fire. They are the same misery, though one glows with a hateful light and the other cloaks you in darkness."

They were quiet again, for a good long while. Sansa nearly fell asleep, and her mind was consumed with thoughts of their earlier discussion. Did she want a child from him? Yes, she thought. She did. A part of her was very afraid of dying without ever being a mother. And if there was ever a man whom she trusted to father her child, it was Sandor.

"When I was little, I always thought that any child of mine would be raised in a fine hall," Sansa whispered. She felt Sandor's fingers coursing through her hair slowly. "I thought I would suffer a Lord Husband in order to bear children, and then I would pass the children off to a septa. I'm not very sure what my purpose would be in all of that."

"It is not a better thing," Sandor insisted, "to bear a child in poverty, in exile, and have no help at all."

"Perhaps not," Sansa admitted, "though, it can not be much worse. I would love the child very much."

"You would be a fine mother," Sandor assured her cautiously, "but under these circumstances, I would not wish it on you or the child."

"Someday," Sansa whispered, almost as a wish.

"Perhaps," Sandor replied. "Perhaps someday."

"In the meantime," Sansa said, tipping her head to look up at him, "With whatever precautions you deem necessary, I should like it if you would consent to know me again as a man is to know his wife."

Sandor smiled crookedly. "I knew I'd get you to ask me to fuck you sometime or another."

Sansa suppressed a laugh, not wanting to feed his ego. "That is not what I asked!"

"It is, in different words." Sandor grinned wickedly at her, and she watched as he pushed himself up and moved to hover over her.

"No, it isn't!" Sansa protested, gasping a bit as he unceremoniously reached beneath the blanket and the hem of her nightdress, creeping his fingertips up her leg. She shuddered. "I was much more ladylike in my request."

"Aye, well… by the end of this, you will not be ladylike at all," Sandor promised. There was something in his jaunty tone, his devious smile, that made Sansa flush with desire. His hands continued up her thighs, concealed by her nightdress, and she felt a flood of moisture there.

"Oh!" she heard herself cry meekly, driving her head back against the pillow, for then his rough fingertips touched her folds and coursed about in ovals and lines that teased and tempted. Sansa's hands grasped roughly at the sheets, clutching them as she struggled to maintain a shred of control against his touch. She bit her lip, hard, as two of his long fingers began to pulse into her ingress.

"Do you like it when I touch you, little bird?" Sandor asked, and Sansa had to shut her eyes tightly against the sight of him. His glowing grey eyes were too much to face. She nodded frantically in response to his question, hearing her breath come hard and fast through her nostrils. "Answer me, Sansa," she heard him demand, and his voice was very quiet in the room.

"I… like it." Sansa trembled as he hooked his two fingers inside of her, pulling them rhythmically as his thumb massaged her nub. His other hand clasped around her breast, groping her through the linen of her shift.

"Lie down, little bird." Sansa felt him pull his hand from her then, and she felt very empty. Her eyes sprang open in frustration. She felt his hands, one slick with her fluids, grasp her hips and yank her down until she was lying more decumbent upon her back. Sandor's hands arranged her legs, pushing her knees up until they were more firmly bent and spreading her thighs. He thrust the hem of Sansa's nightshirt up around her waist and edged himself down the mattress. Sansa was very confused, wondering how it was he was going to position his member against her like that.

But then, very suddenly, she felt a strange and wonderful drag against her entrance, and she looked frantically down to see Sandor's face situated between her thighs. Sansa gasped, letting out a low moan at the sight and feel of his mouth on her.

She reached for his long hair, scratching very gently at his scalp with her fingernails and tipping her head back as her back arched of its own accord. The sensations were overwhelming. She could feel his breath hot against her mound, felt the delightful lapping of his tongue around her folds and nub, and the low vibration of his voice as he groaned.

Once or twice, he carefully sucked her nub and the lips of her entrance into his mouth, and Sansa bucked her hips up at the feel of it. His hands grasped her waist to control her, and that sent a further tingle down her spine. Soon enough, she knew she was going to shatter, and she could hear his name tumbling forth from her mouth as a repeated prayer.

Eventually, his name gave way to a desperate and prolonged cry, mixed with gasps and frantic breathing, and she could feel her hips jerking and twisting against his mouth at the moment that her pleasure exploded. She could feel her walls clenching around his tongue, could hear his own groan buzz into her body as he grasped at her hips.

Too soon, the moment of her zenith was passed, and Sansa dissolved into a puddle as she tried to catch her breath, her eyes clenched shut. But Sandor would allow no such recovery, and before Sansa knew what he was doing, she felt his thick cock plunge into her sopping wet entrance.

She cried out and her eyes sprang open, for her body was very sensitive in the wake of her own pleasure. It was almost not agreeable at all to have him inside of her, for he stretched her and rubbed her and her heart was still pounding. But then Sandor caught her mouth in a kiss as he moved atop her, driving his tongue into her mouth every time he thrust his cock into her body. Sansa clasped her hands around his muscular backside, and suddenly she wanted it to continue forever.

The rhythm was delightful, the solid pulse of his member echoed by his mouth. Sansa felt the familiar twinge of pleasure building inside of her core again as he pumped against her. She could scarcely breathe, for all her energy was consumed by kissing him and by moving with him.

All of a sudden, Sandor broke away from the kiss, his own breath ragged and uneven. His hips jerked hard against her, and he grunted and wrenched his eyes shut. Sansa stared at him and realized he was finishing inside of her. She was abruptly filled with love for him, for she knew he could have pulled out of her as he'd done many times before. She watched him come, relishing the look of bliss upon his scarred face and feeling his cock throb and jolt inside of her body as his hips stilled.

He cracked his grey eyes open, his breath shaking through his chapped lips. Sansa felt his seed leak from her body as he pulled slowly away, sitting back upon his haunches. Sansa smiled weakly at him, but his eyes were serious in response. He dragged his thumb across her lip and nodded solemnly at her.

He rose from the bed, stalking naked across the room. He took a wineskin from the table beside the fireplace and drank deeply from it, replacing the cork after a long while.

Sansa reached beneath the sheets and dabbed the pad of her middle finger between her thighs, feeling the creamy liquid he'd left there. She felt her eyes burn, feeling nothing but love for him.

"Thank you," she whispered quietly, so softly that she wasn't even sure he'd heard her, for he said nothing as he strode back to the bed and climbed nude beneath the sheets.

She lay on her side facing him, her face even with his steadily rising and falling sternum.

"If it is meant to be, little bird, it will happen," he whispered into the stillness of the room. "If not, then I will be content. Nothing men do stops fate, for better or worse."

Sansa smiled meekly against him and nodded. Exhausted by her thoughts, by her grief, and by the pleasure he'd given her, she drifted off to sleep, her mind filled with images of happier times past and future.

Notes:

Thank you all for reading! Feedback, as always, is absolutely invaluable to me. Please, if you have time to leave a comment, do so! Thank you!


	29. Chapter 29

Notes: This chapter is kind of all over the place... ehhhh... sorry! LOL. I promise the next one will contain Sansan delights for the senses.

* * *

"Lord Varys, I need answers." Queen Cersei drummed her thin fingers upon the stone table and flicked her eyebrow up angrily. Varys cleared his throat. This was the fourth time he'd been called into the queen's solar this week, and the conversations were not getting any easier.

Varys stared down at the glass mug before him on the stone table, watching as a servant poured steaming hot liquid into it. It was a brew of mint leaves and lemon with honey, and Varys was hoping it would soothe his sore throat. He coughed a little into his fist and nodded his thanks at the servant boy, touching the glass mug to his lips.

"Your Grace," he said carefully, "I wish I knew who killed our beloved King Joffrey. I seek the answer as much as anyone else -"

Cersei cut him off. "Beloved. That is ludicrous, Lord Varys. I am his mother. Do not sit before me and pretend you did not find him monstrous. You all did."

Varys swallowed a mouthful of scalding liquid, pinching his lips tightly. "Your Grace…"

"I want Margaery Tyrell brought before Tommen for judgment," Cersei pronounced stiffly. "I'm not fool enough not to realize that vile woman had something to do with Joffrey's death."

"Lady Margaery has already been tortured, Your Grace," Varys reminded her. "Even after her fingernails were pulled off, after every last hair plucked from her head, she refused to confess to anything at all. The girl is innocent, I believe."

"I want her head," Cersei insisted viciously, "and those of anyone else who refuses to admit their guilt. I want justice for my son. For your king."

Lord Varys felt a slice of fear rip through his chest at the sight of Queen Cersei in this state. She was churning with a low, boiling lunacy. He could see it in her gleaming eyes. She'd gone mad with grief, Varys thought, and was seeking vengeance wherever it could be had. Varys cleared his throat and nodded carefully.

"It may be possible to bring Lady Margaery before the court. I shall speak with Lord Tywin," he began, but Cersei interrupted him.

"My father has nothing of value to say on this matter. I am the widow of one dead king and the mother of another one. I am Queen in the Seven Kingdoms. And who are you, Varys?" Her voice had become a dark hiss, seeping through her teeth hatefully. She narrowed her eyes and leaned forward. "Who are you? You're not even a man. You come from some stinking city across the Narrow Sea, from some illborn mother whose name nobody will ever care to know, and you presume to supercede me?"

Cersei rose from her chair, pushing her palms flat upon the stone table. She pointed firmly at the door. "Get out, Varys," she said softly, her whisper cutting like a knife. "Go away from me. I do not care to see your face. I shall handle this matter myself. You are henceforth expelled from the small council."

Varys rose from his own chair and squared his jaw. "The matter of my employment is a decision for His Grace the King. I shall take it up with him directly. My lady."

He bowed, casually and insolently, and folded his hands over his chest. He strode quickly from Cersei's solar with the enraged queen glaring after him, his heart thudding in his chest. He blinked a few times, hard, and trembled as he walked down the corridor away from the room. Varys had always been a careful man, a calculating man. A wrench of panic flushed through his veins as he realized that angering Cersei Lannister was probably the most foolhardy thing he had ever done.

His thoughts were abruptly interrupted as Ser Kennos of Kayce, in full armor, came careening down the hallway. In the man's eyes, Varys saw the unmistakable glow of fear. Kennos did not slow as he passed Varys, his eyes staring beyond the eunuch as his hand clutched at the hilt of his sword.

Varys felt his heart quicken. Something was amok. He hastened his steps down the hallway, in the direction from whence Ser Kennos had just come. As he rounded a corner, he nearly ran directly into Petyr Baelish. Behind Littlefinger, Varys could hear shouts and the sound of doors slamming.

"What is happening?" Varys demanded brusquely. Baelish sighed shakily.

"Lord Tywin Lannister has been found dead in the Tower of the Hand. He was in the small hall, sitting up in a chair, a dagger jutting forth from his heart. His servants brought him his midday meal and found him like that."

"There is a ghost in the Red Keep," Varys pronounced, pinching his lips and looking about himself furtively, "and she means to bring down the entire place, I think."

"Lord Varys, do me a favor if you please and have your birds find this ghost. Tell her she has friends." Petyr Baelish scanned the corridor before whispering, "Tell her to come see me."

* * *

Sansa pulled her hood up over her head against the chill of the evening air, sniffing lightly as she walked a step behind Sandor through the alleys of Braavos. They'd been to a mummer's show, just to get out of the house for a bit, but Sandor had insisted upon standing far behind the rest of the crowd.

The performance had been a mockery of love. Two dwarves had bawdily proclaimed their infatuation with one another, flitting about the stage and singing little songs, and then the "father" of the female dwarf had announced that she was already betrothed - to a giant. The tune of the show then turned to how the little woman was supposed to couple with her giant husband. Eventually, her dwarf lover intervened and fought the giant. The dwarf man had thrown a piece of glass into the eye of the giant, causing him to tumble and fall, and then the dwarf had climbed atop the giant and plunged a sword between his ribs. The two dwarves earned the unlikely respect of all those around them and danced off into their merry ever after.

It was a disappointing story, Sansa thought, because it was thoroughly unbelievable in so many ways. She had known a truly brave dwarf, Tyrion Lannister, and even he would never be so foolish as to fight a giant over a woman. Still, Sansa had laughed at the japes and smiled at the love songs, like the silly little girl she had once been. Sandor's hand had rested heavily upon her shoulder all the while, but every time Sansa glanced up to gauge Sandor's reaction, his steely and blank expression had told her he was not entertained.

"It was just a giddy little pageant," Sansa reminded him as they made their way back to the house. "I'm sorry you did not enjoy it."

"Life is cruel and foolish enough without making mockery of it," Sandor had said gruffly, coming to a stop before the glowing window of a tavern. The House of Seven Lamps. They'd been here before. "I'm famished. Fancy a supper?"

Sansa nodded and followed him into the building. It was hot inside, for there were many bodies crammed into the space, and a fire raged in a hearth, as well. A musky scent of incense rose over the low din of conversation, punctuated by occasional shrill laughter or emphatic Valyrian shouts.

Sansa took hold of Sandor's cloak and squeezed between occupied tables as she followed him to an empty corner, sinking gratefully onto a three-legged stool opposite him. A wench came over quickly, her bosom spilling forth from her amethyst-colored gown, and plopped two black horns of hot mulled wine, spiced with cloves, upon the table. Sandor yanked a coin from the pouch at his hip and slid it across the table at the wench, who was eyeing him a bit too flirtatiously for Sansa's liking. The wench playfully flicked the coin off her thumbnail and caught it between her breasts, where it sank into her cleavage. Sansa rolled her eyes, wondering how long it had taken the girl to learn such a sordid trick.

"Husband," she murmured, reaching across the table to place her hand gently upon Sandor's. His eyes wrenched from the serving girl's chest and met Sansa's, and he grinned crookedly. Sansa smiled back knowingly and continued, "Shall we have some food?"

Sandor nodded once, gruffly. He kept his eyes on Sansa but directed his words toward the flirtatious wench. "Some fish, and bread and cheese."

"Of course." The wench's words slid like oil from her plump lips, and she smirked as she turned and slunk away.

"I'd take one night with you over a thousand with her, I'll tell you that much," Sandor said, and Sansa resisted the urge to giggle at the silliness of it all. She knew he'd had whores, that he'd had other women, but none of it mattered now.

"Andal," said a slimy voice from behind Sandor. Sansa glanced furtively over his shoulder and saw two young Braavosi men, swathed in jewel-toned finery, rising from their chairs. She watched Sandor square his jaw but wisely keep both his hands upon the table. Sansa felt her pulse quicken with alarm at the way the young, bearded bravos were sneering.

"What do you want? It isn't quite dark yet," Sandor growled.

"You are Sandor Clegane. The Hound," one of the bravos hissed, "are you not?"

"That would depend on who's asking. Who the fuck are you, exactly?" Sandor turned slowly on his stool, and suddenly the incense-hazed room grew very quiet. Sansa gulped as she looked around the room. Everyone had turned their attention to the bravos and to Westerosi stranger they were goading. Even the heavy-bosomed wench had stalled in her movements and was leaning anxiously against a thick pole across the room, her knuckles pulled up to her mouth.

"Who is the most beautiful woman in the world?" the younger of the two bravos asked in an icy voice. He moved to place his fingertips upon the hilt of his sword.

Sandor did not answer. Instead, he gulped heavily from his hot mulled wine. Sansa knew what he was supposed to say to the Braavosi men. The Nightingale. He was supposed to tell them that The Nightingale was the most beautiful woman in the world, and then perhaps they would leave them both be.

_Say it_, she pleaded in her mind, her thoughts screaming at him. _The Nightingale! Say it._

But when Sandor set down his horn mug at last and turned to the bravos, he muttered, "The most beautiful woman in the world is my wife, Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell."

Sansa felt her heart sink as he spoke, for then the bravos turned their lithe bodies sideways and unsheathed their thin swords. One pressed the tip of his blade against Sandor's shoulder, urging the larger man to rise.

Sandor's grey eyes met Sansa's for a brief moment, and Sansa was alarmed as she thought that he looked almost bored. Didn't he realize there were two men behind him who wanted to kill him? Sansa was terrified.

But then Sandor rose, and in one fluid motion, he drew his thick sword from his hip and dragged it through the air. One of the bravos staggered backward, and Sansa felt her eyes go round as saucers as she realized that Sandor had already slashed the man's chest wide open. The bravo collapsed onto his knees, and Sandor kicked his blade away. Then he turned to the other Braavosi swordsman and made a sharp thrusting motion, his large sword lodging itself in the young man's abdomen. The bravo's eyes bugged out of his thin face and blood gurgled forth from between his painted lips. He teetered and careened and at last foundered, his delicate sword clattering to the wooden floorboards.

Sandor pulled his sword from the bravo and sheathed it, turning back to the table. "Let's go, little bird," he said firmly, holding out his hand to her.

Sansa took it and wordlessly followed him from the silent tavern. She chastised herself thoroughly, for the only coherent thought in her head was that they'd left before they'd had any food. She should have been frightened, she thought distantly. She should have been horrified, the way Sandor had so expeditiously slashed and stabbed at the worthless bravos.

Instead of being filled with disgust, though, Sansa felt a little twinge of attraction as they coursed quickly through the dark streets. They were nearly back to the house now. Sansa tried her best to banish the arousal. She should not want him more than usual after seeing him be violent, she thought. She should scold him for being churlish and sarcastic with the bravos. Instead, her head pounded with an insistent notion - that the very instant they were back inside the little house, she would peel every scrap of clothing from Sandor's form and mount him as though he were a horse.

_Stop it, Sansa_, she admonished herself firmly as Sandor placed the key into their front door with a loud clank. _He's a killer. Just like he's always said. He's a killer. It isn't attractive. It's reality, but it isn't attractive._

The door shut firmly behind them and Sansa stepped into the dark, cold house. She stood still for a while as Sandor lit a few lanterns so that they could see, and then he pulled a black bottle of Dornish sour from the wine cabinet and uncorked it. He gulped it down, swiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. Sansa could see blood on him, little spatters of it, and she said quietly,

"Perhaps you should take those clothes off and bathe. You're covered in dead bravos."

An hour later, she was dozing in the bed upstairs, a little fire smoldering in the hearth. Sandor had drawn himself a bath and was cleaning himself in the next room; she could hear little sloshes of water every now and again as he squeezed the sponge out over his body.

As Sansa drifted in and out of sleep, she began to have the first swirlings of dreams. In her mind, she and Sandor were at Winterfell, and all the buildings were untouched by Greyjoy or Bolton. Then Sansa was jarred back to reality, to the bed in the little Braavosi house, where her husband washed the deaths of cavalier dueling fools from his scarred form.

She pushed her face into her thin pillow and sighed heavily.

Then, just when Sansa had thought she'd seen quite enough blood for the evening, she felt an awful rush between her legs, accompanied by a firm cramping sensation. She sprang from the bed and peeled up her night shift, plunging her fingertips between her thighs. When she pulled them back, her moonblood was upon them, scarlet and gleaming in the firelight.

Sansa scowled as she stuffed rags into her smallclothes and washed the blood from her fingers. She heard Sandor rise from the bath in the room across the hall, his low voice humming some old drinking song. Sansa crawled back under the warm blankets of the bed and and huddled her body into crouch.

There was no child this month, then. Well, Sansa thought firmly, they would simply have to try harder.

* * *

Petyr Baelish pushed open the heavy door to his chambers, listening to the ancient iron hinges squeak and the wooden planks groan in protest. The chambers were black as pitch, so he hung the lantern he carried upon a hook just inside the threshold.

He was not at all surprised when he saw her, perched in one of his upholstered chairs, her little spindly sword laying upon her lap.

Petyr smirked at her and shut the door behind him. She looked nothing like her mother, with her hair shorn and her eyes wild. She gazed coolly at him, at though his presence annoyed her, and Petyr thought that sometime he should like to tell her that she had practiced the look of arrogant danger quite well.

He stepped into the shadowy space, his hands held out in a peaceful gesture.

"Arya Stark," he murmured, inclining his head reverently. "Welcome back to the Red Keep."

Notes: At this point, I'd estimate the story is about 60% done. Please, please, pleeeeeease leave a comment if you get a moment. I would really love to hear whether or not people are enjoying the story thus far! Thank you so much!


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